SOME  PERSONS 

UNKNOWNS 


c^  E  .W.  HORNUNG 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


A 
'"it. 


By  the  Same  Author 


A   BRIDE  FROM  THE  BUSH 
THE  ROGUE'S  MARCH 
I RR  A  LIE'S  BUSHRANGER 
MY  LORD  DUKE 
YOUNG  BLOOD 


SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 


SOME   PERSONS 
UNKNOWN 


BY 


E.  W.    HORNUNG 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1898 


Copyright,  1898,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


TROW  DIRECTORY 

PRINTING  AND  bOOKBINDINQ  COMPANY 

NEW    YORK 


PR 

(,015 


In  jffiemorlam  Aatrte 


1  ^O       -?p 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Kenton's  Innings 1 

A  Literary  Coincidence 40 

"Author!    Author!'' 71 

The  Widow  of  Piper's  I'oint      ....      87 

After  the  Fact 104 

The  Voice  of  Gunbar    ....  .151 

The  Magic  Cigar 168 

The  Governess  at  Greenbush    .        .        .        .186 

A  Farewell  Performance 234 

A  Spin  of  the  Coin 244 

The  Star  of  the  Qrasmere 256 


KENYON'S  INNINGS 


Kenyon  had  been  more  unmanageable  than  usual. 
Unsettled  and  excitable  from  the  moment  he  awoke 
and  remembered  who  was  coming  in  the  evening, 
he  had  remained  in  an  unsafe  state  all  day.  That 
evening  found  him  with  unbroken  bones  was  a 
miracle  to  Ethel  his  sister,  and  to  his  great  friend 
John,  the  under-gardener.  Poor  Ethel  was  in  charge; 
and  sole  charge  of  Kenyon,  who  was  eleven,  was  no 
light  matter  for  a  girl  with  her  hair  still  down.  Her 
brother  was  a  handful  at  most  times;  to-day  he  would 
have  filled  some  pairs  of  stronger  hands  than  Ethel's. 
They  had  begun  the  morning  together,  with  snob- 
cricket,  as  the  small  boy  called  it;  but  Kenyon  had 
been  rather  rude  over  it,  and  Ethel  had  retired.  She 
soon  regretted  this  step;  it  had  made  him  reckless; 
he  had  spent  the  most  dangerous  day.  Kenyon  de- 
lighted in  danger.  He  had  a  mania  for  walking 
round  the  entire  premises  on  the  garden  wall,  which 
was  high  enough  to  kill  him  if  he  fell,  and  for  clam- 
bering over  the  greenhouses,  which  offered  a  still 

1 


2  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

more  fascinating  risk.  Not  only  had  he  done  both 
this  morning,  he  had  gone  so  fax  as  to  straddle  a 
gable  of  the  house  itself,  shrieking  good-tempered 
insults  at  Ethel,  who  appealed  to  him  with  tears 
and  entreaties  from  the  lawn  below.  Ethel  had  been 
quite  disabled  from  sitting  at  meat  with  him;  and 
in  the  afternoon  he  had  bothered  the  gardeners,  in 
the  potting-shed,  to  such  an  extent  that  his  friend 
John  had  subsequently  refused  to  bowl  to  him.  In 
John's  words  Master  Kenyon  had  been  a  public 
nuisance  all  day — though  a  lovable  one — at  his  very 
worst  he  was  that.  He  had  lovable  looks,  for  one 
thing.  It  was  not  the  only  thing.  The  boy  had  run 
wild  since  his  young  mother's  death.  There  were 
reasons  why  he  should  not  go  to  school  at  present. 
There  were  reasons  why  he  should  spend  the  long 
summer  days  in  the  sunshine,  and  open  only  the 
books  he  cared  about,  despite  the  oddity  of  his  taste 
in  books.  He  had  dark,  laughing  eyes,  and  a  face 
of  astonishing  brightness  and  health:  astonishing 
because  (as  he  said)  his  legs  and  arms  were  as  thin 
as  pipe-stems,  and  certainly  looked  as  brittle.  Ken- 
yon was  indeed  a  delicate  boy.  He  was  small  and 
delicate  and  weak  in  everything  but  spirit.  "  He 
has  the  spirit,"  said  John,  his  friend,  "  of  the  deuce 
and  all! " 

Ethel  forgave  easily,  perhaps  too  easily,  but  then 
she  was  Kenyon's  devoted  slave,  who  cried  about 
him  half  the  night,  and  lived  for  him,  and  longed 


KENYON'S   INNINGS  3 

to  die  for  him.  Kenyon  had  toned  himself  down  by 
tea-time,  and  when  he  sought  her  then  as  though 
nothing  had  happened,  she  was  only  too  thankful 
to  catch  his  spirit.  Had  she  reminded  him  of  his 
behaviour  on  the  roof  and  elsewhere,  he  would  have 
been  very  sorry  and  affectionate;  but  it  was  not  her 
way  to  make  him  sorry,  it  was  her  way  to  show  an 
interest  in  all  he  had  to  say,  and  at  tea-time  Kenyon 
was  still  full  of  the  thing  that  had  excited  and  un- 
settled him  in  the  morning.  Only  now  he  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  in  awe,  and  the  school-room  tea  had 
never  been  a  seemlier  ceremony. 

These  children  seldom  sat  at  table  with  their 
father,  and  very,  very  seldom  listened  for  the  wheels 
of  his  brougham  as  they  were  listening  to-night.  In 
the  boy's  mind  the  sound  was  associated  with  guilty 
apprehensions  and  a  cessation  of  all  festivities.  But 
to-night  Mr.  Harwood  was  to  bring  back  with  him 
one  of  Kenyon's  own  heroes,  one  of  the  heroes  of 
his  favourite  book,  which  was  not  a  story-book.  It 
has  been  said  that  Kenyon's  literary  taste  was  pe- 
culiar; his  favourite  book  was  Lillywliite's  Cricketers' 
Guide;  the  name  of  the  great  young  man  who  was 
coming  this  evening  had  figured  prominently  in  re- 
cent volumes  of  LillywMte,  and  Kenyon  knew  every 
score  he  had  ever  made. 

"Do  you  think  he'll  talk  to  us?"  was  one  of  the 
thousand  questions  which  Ethel  had  to  answer.  "  I'd 
give  my  nut  to  talk  to  him!    Fancy  having  C.  J. 


4  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

Forrester  to  stay  here!  I've  a  sort  of  idea  the  gov- 
ernor asked  hirn  partly  to  please  me,  though  he  says 
he's  a  sort  of  relation.  I  only  wish  we'd  known  it 
before.  Anyhow,  it's  the  jolliest  thing  the  governor 
ever  did  in  his  life,  and  a  wonder  he  did  it,  seeing 
he  only  laughs  at  cricket.  I  wish  he'd  been  a  cricketer 
himself,  then  he'd  kick  up  less  row  about  the  glass; 
thank  goodness  I  haven't  broken  any  to-day!  I  say, 
I  wish  C.  J.  Forrester  'd  made  more  runs  yesterday; 
he's  certain  to  have  the  hump." 

Kenyon  had  not  picked  up  all  his  pretty  expres- 
sions in  the  potting-shed;  he  was  intimate  with  a 
boy  who  went  to  a  public  school. 

"  How  many  did  he  make  ?  "  Ethel  asked. 

"  Duck  and  seven.    He  must  be  sick!  " 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  thinks  far  less 
about  it  than  you  do,  Ken.  It's  only  a  game;  I  don't 
suppose  he'll  mind  so  very  much." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  at  all;  it's  only  about  the  swaggerest 
county  match  of  the  season,"  scathed  Kenyon,  "  and 
they  only  went  and  let  Notts  lick!  Besides,  the 
Sportsman  says  he  was  out  to  a  miserable  stroke  sec- 
ond innings.  Where  did  I  see  the  Sportsman?  Oh, 
John  and  I  are  getting  it  from  the  town  every  day; 
we're  going  halves;  it  comes  to  John,  though,  so 
you  needn't  say  anything.  What  are  you  grinning 
at,  Ethel?  Ah,  you're  not  up  in  real  cricket.  You 
only  understand  snob." 

Kenyon  was  more  experienced.    The  public  school 


KENYON'S  INNINGS  5 

boy  hard  by  had  given  him  an  innings  or  two  at  his 
net,  where  Kenyon  had  picked  up  more  than  the 
rudiments  of  the  game  and  a  passion  for  Lilhjwhite. 
He  had  learnt  there  his  pretty  expressions,  which 
were  anything  but  popular  at  home.  Mr.  Ilarwood 
was  a  man  of  limited  patience,  with  a  still  more 
limited  knowledge  of  boys.  He  frightened  Kenyon, 
and  the  boy  was  at  his  worst  with  him.  A  very 
sensitive  man,  of  uncertain  temper,  he  could  not  get 
on  with  his  children,  though  Ethel  was  his  right 
hand  already.  It  was  a  secret  trouble,  an  unac- 
knowledged grief,  to  hard  lonely  Mr.  Harwood.  But 
it  was  his  own  fault;  he  knew  that;  he  knew  all  about 
it.  He  knew  too  much  of  himself,  and  not  enough 
of  his  children. 

You  could  not  blame  Kenyon — Mr.  Harwood 
would  have  been  the  last  to  do  so — yet  it  was  dread- 
ful to  see  him  so  impatient  for  his  father's  return, 
for  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and  now  only 
for  the  sake  of  the  stranger  he  was  bringing  with 
him;  to  see  him  peering  through  the  blind  at  this 
stranger,  without  so  much  as  glancing  at  his  father 
or  realising  that  he  was  there;  to  hear  him  talking 
volubly  in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner  (when  the 
children  came  down)  to  a  very  young  man  whom 
he  had  never  seen  before;  and  to  remember  how 
little  he  ever  had  to  say  to  his  own  father.  Ethel 
felt  it — all — and  was  particularly  attentive  to  her 
father  this  evening.     That  peculiar  man  may  also 


6  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

have  felt  it,  and  the  root  of  Ethel's  attentions  into 
the  bargain;  for  he  was  very  snubbing  to  her.  He 
never  showed  much  feeling.  Yet  it  was  to  please 
Kenyon  that  Mr.  Harwood  had  pressed  Forrester  to 
look  him  up,  and  not  by  any  means  (though  this  had 
been  his  way  of  putting  it  to  his  young  kinsman, 
whom  he  scarcely  knew)  to  cheer  his  own  loneliness. 

The  cricketer  was  a  sunburnt  giant,  disappoint- 
ingly free  from  personal  lustre,  and  chiefly  remark- 
able for  his  hands.  He  had  an  enormous  hand,  and 
when  it  closed  like  jaws  over  Kenyon's  little  one, 
this  suffering  student  could  well  understand  his 
Lillywhite  characterising  C.  J.  Forrester  as  "  a  grand 
field,  especially  in  the  country."  They  talked  cricket 
together  from  the  first  moment,  and  until  Kenyon 
said  good-night.  Upstairs  he  told  Ethel  that  so  far 
they  had  got  no  further  than  the  late  match  against 
Notts;  that  Forrester  had  described  it  "  as  if  he'd 
only  seen  the  thing; "  and  that  she  was  quite  right, 
and  C.  J.  was  far  less  cut  up  at  the  result  than 
he  was.  It  was  Kenyon's  county  which  had  been 
trounced  by  Nottinghamshire,  and  he  went  so  far  as 
to  affirm  that  C.  J.  Forrester's  disappointing  form 
had  directly  contributed  to  the  disaster,  and  that  he 
deserved  to  lose  his  place  in  the  team.  This,  how- 
ever, was  but  a  drop  of  bravado  in  the  first  flood  of 
enthusiasm  for  C.  J. 

Mr.  Harwood  watched  and  heard  the  frank,  free, 
immediate    intercourse    between    Kenyon    and    the 


KENYON'S   INNINGS  7 

visitor.  He  had  never  known  Kenyon  so  bright  and 
animated — so  nearly  handsome.  The  boy  was  at  his 
best,  and  his  best  was  a  revelation  to  Mr.  Harwood, 
who  had  never  in  his  life  had  a  real  conversation 
with  Kenyon  such  as  Forrester  was  having  now.  He 
had  talked  to  Kenyon,  that  was  all.  As  he  sat  grimly 
listening,  with  Ethel  snubbed  to  silence,  he  may  have 
felt  a  jealous  longing  to  be  his  small  son's  friend,  not 
merely  his  father;  to  interest  him,  as  this  complete 
stranger  was  doing,  and  he  himself  honestly  inter- 
ested; to  love  openly,  and  be  openly  loved.  The  man 
was  self-conscious  enough  to  feel  all  this,  and  to 
smile  as  he  rose  to  look  at  the  clock,  and  saw  in  the 
mirror  behind  it  no  trace  of  such  feeling  in  his  own 
thin-lipped,  whiskered  face.  At  nine  the  children 
said  good-night,  of  their  own  accord,  knowing  better 
than  to  stay  a  minute  over  their  time.  Mr.  Harwood 
kissed  them  as  coldly  and  lightly  as  usual;  but  sur- 
prised them  with  a  pleasantry  before  they  reached  the 
door. 

"  Wait,  Kenyon.  Forrester,  ask  him  your  average. 
He'll  tell  you  to  a  decimal.  He  knows  what  he  calls 
his  Lillywliite  by  heart." 

Kenyon  looked  extremely  eager,  though  Mr.  Har- 
wood's  tone  struck  Forrester  as  a  little  sarcastic. 

"You've  been  getting  it  up!"  the  cricketer  said 
knowingly  to  Kenyon. 

"  I  haven't,"  declared  Kenyon,  bubbling  over  with 
excitement. 


8  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

"  You  needn't  ask  him  your  own/'  Ethel  added, 
quite  entering  into  it.    "  He  knows  them  all." 

"  Oh,  we'll  have  mine,"  said  Forrester,  who  felt 
slightly  ridiculous  but  much  amused.  "  What  was 
it  for  the  'Varsity — my  first  year?  " 

.Kenyon  had  to  think.  That  was  three  years  ago, 
before  he  had  known  much  about  cricket;  but  he 
had  read  up  that  year's  Lilly  white — he  read  as  many 
old  LillywMtes  as  he  could  borrow — and  he  answered 
in  a  few  moments: 

"  Nineteen  point  seven." 

"  You  have  been  getting  it  up! "  cried  Forrester. 

Kenyon  was  beaming.  "  No,  I  haven't — honestly 
I  haven't!    Ask  Ethel!" 

"  Oh,  it's  genuine  enough,"  said  Mr.  Harwood ; 
"  it's  his  accomplishment — one  to  be  proud  of,  isn't 
it?     That'll  do,  Kenyon;  good-night,  both  of  you." 

The  door  closed. 

"  He's  one  to  be  proud  of,"  said  Forrester  pointed- 
ly, a  vague  indignation  rising  within  him.  "  A  de- 
lightful little  chap,  I  call  him!  And  he  was  right 
to  a  decimal.    I  never  heard  of  such  a  fellow!  " 

"He's  cricket  mad,"  said  Mr.  Harwood.  "I'm 
glad  you  like  him." 

"I  like  him  immensely.  I  like  his  enthusiasm. 
I  never  saw  so  small  a  boy  so  keen.    Does  he  play?  " 

"  Not  properly;  he's  not  fit  to;  he's  rather  delicate. 
No,  it's  mostly  theory  with  Kenyon;  and  I'm  very 
much  afraid  he'll  bore  you.    You  mustn't  let  him. 


KENYON'S   INNINGS  9 

Indeed  I  fear  you'll  have  a  slow  time  all  round;  but, 
as  I  told  you,  there's  a  horse  to  ride  whenever  you 
want  him." 

"  Does  the  boy  ride?  " 

"  He's  not  allowed  to.  Then  we  have  a  very  re- 
spectable club  in  the  town,  where  I  can  tuck  you  up 
and  make  you  comfortable  any  time  you  like  to  come 
down.  Only  don't,  for  your  own  sake,  encourage 
Kenyon  to  be  a  nuisance;  he  doesn't  require  very 
much  encouragement." 

"  My  dear  sir,  we're  too  keen  cricketers  to  bore 
each  other;  we're  going  to  be  tremendous  friends. 
You  don't  mean  to  say  he  bores  you?  Ah,  with  the 
scores,  perhaps;  but  you  must  be  awfully  proud  of 
having  such  a  jolly  little  beggar;  I  know  /  should  be! 
I'd  make  a  cricketer  of  him.  If  he's  as  keen  as  this 
now,  in  a  few  years'  time " 

"  You  smoke,  Forrester?  We'll  go  into  the  other 
room." 

Mr.  Harwood  had  turned  away  and  was  putting  out 
the  lights. 

II 

Long  before  breakfast  next  morning — while  the 
lawns  were  yet  frosted  with  dew  and  lustrous  in  the 
level  sunlight — Kenyon  Harwood  and  C.  J.  Forrester, 
the  well-known  cricketer,  met  and  fraternised.  Ken- 
yon and  John  had  always  spoken  of  Forrester 
as   "  C.    J.";    and    when   Kenyon   let   this   out,   it 


10  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

was  arranged,  chiefly  by  C.  J.  himself,  who  was 
amused  and  pleased,  that  Kenyon  should  never 
call  him  anything  else.  Mr.  Harwood,  at  break- 
fast, rather  disapproved  of  the  arrangement,  but 
it  was  hardly  a  matter  for  the  paternal  ukase. 
Meanwhile  Kenyon  had  personally  conducted  C.  J. 
round  the  place,  and  had  most  impressively  intro- 
duced him  (in  the  potting-shed)  to  John,  who  looked 
so  proud  and  so  delighted  as  to  put  a  head  even  on 
Kenyon's  delight  and  pride.  C.  J.  was  charmed  with 
John;  but  he  was  less  enthusiastic  about  a  bricked 
quadrangle,  in  front  of  the  gardener's  and  coachman's 
cottages,  with  wickets  painted  on  a  buttress,  where 
Kenyon  was  constantly  indulging  in  small  cricket — 
notably  in  the  dinner-hour  of  John,  who  bolted  his 
food  to  come  out  and  bowl  to  him.  The  skilled  opin- 
ion of  C.  J.  was  not  in  favour  of  "  snob,"  as  played  by 
Kenyon  with  a  racket  and  a  soft  ball. 

"He  says  a  racket  is  bad  for  you,"  Ethel  under- 
stood from  Kenyon  (to  whom  it  was  a  very  serious 
matter);  "makes  you  play  with  a  crooked  bat,  and 
teaches  you  to  spoon.  So  there's  an  end  to  snob! 
But  what  do  you  think?  He's  going  to  take  me  into 
the  town  to  choose  a  decent  bat;  and  we're  going 
in  for  regular  practice  on  the  far  lawn — John  and  all 
— if  the  governor  lets  us.  C.  J.'s  going  to  coach  me. 
Think  of  being  coached  by  C.  J.  Forrester!  " 

"  Father  is  sure  to  let  you,"  said  Ethel;  and  cer- 
tainly Mr.  Harwood  did  not  say  no;  but  his  consent 


KENYON'S   [NNINGS  11 

was  coldly  given,  and  one  thing  he  stipulated  almost 
sternly. 

"  I  won't  have  Kenyon  run.  I  shall  put  a  stop  to 
it  if  he  does.    It  might  kill  him." 

"  Ah,  he  has  told  me  about  that."  Forrester  added, 
simply,  "  I  am  so  sorry!  " 

Kenyon,  in  fact,  in  explaining  the  system  of  scor- 
ing at  snob — a  most  ingenious  system — had  said: 

"You  see,  I  mayn't  run  my  runs.  I  know  the 
boundaries  don't  make  half  such  a  good  game,  but 
I  can't  help  it.  What's  wrong?  I'm  sure  I  can't 
tell  you.  I've  been  to  heaps  of  doctors,  but  they 
never  say  much  to  me;  they  just  mess  about  and 
then  send  you  back  to  the  room  where  you  look  at 
the  papers.  Mother  used  to  take  me  to  London  on 
purpose,  and  the  governor's  done  so  twice.  It's  my 
hip,  or  some  rot.  It's  a  jolly  bore,  for  it  feels  all 
right,  and  I'm  positive  I  could  run,  and  ride,  and  go 
to  school.    Blow  the  doctors!  " 

"  But  obey  them,"  C.  J.  had  said,  seriously;  "  you 
should  go  in  for  obeying  orders,  Kenyon." 

They  got  the  bat.  It  was  used  a  great  deal  during 
those  few  days,  the  too  few  days  of  C.  J.'s  visit;  and 
was  permitted  to  repose  in  C.  J.'s  cricket-bag,  cheek 
by  jowl  with  bruised  veterans  that  had  served  with 
honour  at  Lord's  and  at  the  Oval.  Kenyon  was  very- 
mindful  of  those  services,  and  handled  the  big  bats 
even  more  reverently  than  he  shook  his  hero's  hand. 
They  lent  themselves  to  this  sort  of  thing  more  read- 


12  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

ily  than  C.  J.  did.  Small  doubt  that  Kenyon — at  all 
events  at  first — would  have  had  his  hero  a  trifle  more 
heroic  than  the  Almighty  had  made  him.  There 
was  nothing  intrinsically  venerable  in  his  personality, 
as  there  might  have  been.  He  was  infinitely  more 
friendly  than  Kenyon  had  dreamt  of  finding  him;  he 
was  altogether  nicer;  but  he  did  lack  the  vague  inex- 
pressible distinction  with  which  the  boy's  imagination 
invested  the  heroes  of  Lilly  white's  Guide. 

That  summer  was  the  loveliest  of  its  decade,  and 
Kenyon  made  the  most  of  it.  He  had  never  before 
seemed  so  strong,  and  well,  and  promising.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  his  really  miserable  little  body 
seemed  equal — at  moments — to  his  mighty  spirit; 
and  the  days  of  C.  J.  were  the  brightest  and  happiest 
he  had  ever  known.  In  that  jolly,  manly  companion- 
ship the  unrealised  want  of  an  intensely  masculine 
young  soul  was  insensibly  filled.  Hard,  perhaps,  to 
fill  it  so  completely  for  so  short  a  time:  the  cricketer's 
departure  was  so  soon  at  hand!  As  it  was  he  had  put 
it  off  some  days,  because  he  liked  Kenyon  with  an 
extraordinary  liking.  But  he  was  wanted  at  the  Oval 
on  the  last  Thursday  in  July;  his  play  with  Kenyon 
and  John  (though  John  was  a  rough  natural  bowler) 
could  by  no  stretch  of  imagination  be  regarded  as 
practice  for  an  important  county  match;  he  decided 
to  tear  himself  away  on  the  Tuesday  morning. 

He  had  been  with  them  only  a  week,  but  the  Har- 
woods  had  bitten  deep  into  his  life,  a  life  not  wholly 


KENYON'S    INNINGS  13 

consecrated  to  cricket.  Forrester  had  definite  aspi- 
rations, and  some  very  noble  intentions;  and  he  hap- 
pened to  possess  the  character  to  give  this  spiritual 
baggage  some  value,  in  his  case.  Also  he  had  a  kind 
heart,  which  Kenyon  had  completely  won.  He  liked 
Ethel;  but  one  could  not  merely  like  Kenyon,  with 
his  frail  little  frame  and  his  splendid  spirit.  Ethel, 
however,  was  very  sweet;  her  eyes  were  like  Kenyon's 
in  everything  but  their  sadness,  as  deep  and  lustrous, 
but  so  often  sad.  Her  love  for  Kenyon  was  the  most 
pathetic  thing  but  one  that  Forrester  had  ever  seen. 
The  more  touching  spectacle  was  that  of  the  father  of 
Ethel  and  Kenyon,  who  seemed  to  have  very  little 
love  for  his  children,  and  to  conceal  what  he  had. 
He  was  nice  enough  to  Forrester,  who  found  him  a 
different  being  at  the  club,  affable,  good-natured, 
amusing  in  his  sardonic  way.  He  talked  a  little  to 
Forrester  about  the  children,  a  very  little,  but  enough 
to  make  Forrester  sincerely  sorry  for  him.  He  was 
sorrier  for  Mr.  Harwood  than  for  Ethel  or  for  Kenyon 
himself.  He  pitied  him  profoundly  on  Kenyon's  ac- 
count, but  less  because  the  boy  might  never  live  to 
grow  up,  than  because,  as  Forrester  read  father  and 
son,  there  would  never  be  much  love  to  lose  between 
them.  As  for  Kenyon,  there  was  a  chance  for  him 
yet:  even  the  family  doctor  declared  that  he  had 
never  been  so  well  as  he  was  now.  His  vitality — his 
amazing  vitality — seemed  finally  to  upset  a  certain 
pessimistic  calculation.    His  trouble  might  never  be- 


14  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

come  a  greater  trouble  than  it  had  been  already;  and 
this  summer  it  had  been  no  trouble  at  all,  his  very 
limp  was  no  longer  noticeable.  He  might  yet  go  to 
school;  and  Forrester  himself  was  going  to  start  a 
small  boys'  school  the  following  summer,  in  partner- 
ship with  an  older  man,  in  one  of  the  healthiest  spots 
in  the  island.  St.  Crispin's  had  been  spoken  of  for 
Kenyon.  Kenyon  himself  spoke  of  little  else  during 
Forrester's  last  day  or  two.  To  go  to  school  at  St. 
Crispin's  was  now  the  dream  of  his  life. 

"  I  am  sorry  we  told  him  about  it,"  Mr.  Harwood 
said,  gloomily.  "  He  may  never  be  able  to  go  there; 
he  may  never  again  be  so  well  as  he  is  now;  all  the 
summer  it  has  seemed  too  good  to  last!  " 

Forrester,  for  his  part,  thought  it  good  for  the 
boy  to  have  things  to  look  forward  to,  thought  that, 
if  he  could  go,  the  change  of  life  and  climate  might 
prove  the  saving  and  making  of  him.  Beyond  this, 
he  honestly  hoped  for  the  best  (whereas  Mr.  Harwood 
seemed  to  look  for  the  worst),  and  expressed  his  hope 
— often  a  really  strong  one — with  all  possible  em- 
phasis. 

He  carries  with  him  still  some  intenselv  vivid  im- 
pressions  of  this  visit,  but  especially  of  the  last  day 
or  two,  when  the  weather  was  hotter  than  ever — de- 
spite one  splendid  shower — and  Kenyon  if  anything 
more  alert,  active  and  keen.  He  remembers,  for  ex- 
ample, how  Ethel  and  Kenyon  and  he  tore  to  an  out- 
lying greenhouse  for  shelter  from  that  shower,  or 


KENYON'S   INNINGS  15 

rather  how  he  carried  Kenyon.  In  the  greenhouse, 
accompanied  by  a  tremendous  rattle  of  rain  on  the 
sloping  glass,  Kenyon  sang  them  "  Willow  the  King," 
the  Harrow  cricket  song,  which  Tommy  Barnard,  the 
boy  with  the  cricket-net,  had  taught  Kenyon  among 
less  pretty  things.  Clear  through  the  years  Forrester 
can  hear  Kenyon's  jolly  treble,  and  Ethel's  shy  notes, 
and  his  own  most  brazen  bass  in  the  chorus;  he  even 
recollects  the  verse  in  which  the  singer  broke  down 
through  too  strong  a  sense  of  its  humour : — 

"  Who  is  this  ?  "  King  Willow  lie  swore, 
"  Hops  like  that  to  a  gentleman's  door  ? 
Who's  afraid  of  a  Duke  like  him? 
Fiddlededee  !  "  says  the  monarch  slim. 
"  What  do  you  say,  my  courtiers  three  ?  " 
And  the  courtiers  all  said  "Fiddlededee  !  " 

But  his  last  evening,  the  Monday  evening,  C.  J. 
Forrester  remembers  best.  They  had  an  immense 
match — double-wicket.  The  head  gardener,  the 
coachman,  John  (captain)  and  the  butler  made  one 
side;  Forrester,  Kenyon,  Ethel  (Kenyon  insisted)  and 
T.  Barnard  (home  early,  ceger)  were  the  other.  "  It's 
Gentlemen  and  Players,"  John  said  with  a  gaping 
grin;  and  the  Players  won,  in  spite  of  C.  J.,  who,  at 
the  last,  did  all  he  knew,  for  Kenyon's  sake. 

It  was  a  gorgeous  evening.  The  sun  set  slowly  on 
a  gaudy  scene;  the  wealth  of  colour  was  almost  trop- 
ical.   The  red  light  glared  between  the  trees,  their 


16  SOME    PEESONS    UNKNOWN 

crests  swayed  gently  against  the  palest,  purest  amber. 
Mr.  Harwood  looked  on  rather  kindly  with  his  cigar; 
and  the  shadow  of  his  son,  in  for  the  second  time,  lay 
along  the  pitch  like  a  single  plank.  Ethel  was  run- 
ning for  him,  and  it  was  really  exciting,  for  there  were 
rims  to  get;  it  was  the  last  wicket;  and  Kenyon,  to 
C.  J.'s  secret  sorrow,  and  in  spite  of  C.  J.'s  distin- 
guished coaching,  was  not  a  practical  cricketer.  Yet 
he  was  doing  really  very  well  this  evening.  They  did 
not  bowl  too  easily  to  him,  he  would  not  have  stood 
that;  they  bowled  very  nearly  their  best;  but  Ken- 
yon's  bat  managed  somehow  to  get  in  the  way,  and 
once  he  got  hold  of  one  wide  of  his  legs,  and  sent  it 
an  astonishing  distance,  in  fact  over  the  wall.  Even 
Mr.  Harwood  clapped  his  hands,  and  Forrester  mut- 
tered, "That's  the  happiest  moment  of  his  life! ': 
Certainly  Kenyon  knew  more  about  that  leg-hit  ever 
afterwards  than  he  did  at  the  moment,  for,  it  must  be 
owned,  it  was  a  fluke;  but  the  very  next  ball  Kenyon 
was  out — run  out  through  Ethel's  petticoats — and 
the  game  was  lost. 

"  Oh,  Ethel!  "  he  cried,  his  flush  of  ecstasy  wiped 
out  in  an  instant.  "  I  could  have  run  the  thing  my- 
self! " 

Ethel  was  dreadfully  grieved,  and  showed  it  so  un- 
mistakably that  Kenyon,  shifting  his  ground,  turned 
hotly  to  an  unlucky  groom  who  had  been  standing 
umpire. 

"  I  don't  believe  she  was  out,  Fisher! "    he  ex- 


KENYON'S   ENNINGS  17 

claimed  more  angrily  than  ever.  Mr.  Harwood 
snatched  his  cigar  from  his  mouth;  hut  C.  J.  fore- 
stalled his  interference  by  running  up  and  taking 
Kenyon  by  the  arm. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I'm  surprised  at  you!  To  dispute 
the  umpire!  I  thought  you  were  such  a  sportsman? 
You  must  learn  to  take  a  licking,  and  go  out  grinning, 
like  a  man." 

Kenyon  was  crushed — by  his  hero.  He  stammered 
an  apology,  with  a  crimson  face,  and  left  the  lawn 
with  the  sweetness  of  that  leg-hit  already  turned  in 
an  instant  to  gall.  And  there  was  a  knock  at  Forres- 
ter's door  while  he  was  dressing  for  dinner,  and  in 
crept  Kenyon,  hanging  his  head,  and  shut  the  door 
and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  you'll  never  think  the  same  of  me  again,  C. 
J.!  A  nice  fellow  you'll  think  me,  who  can't  stand 
getting  out — a  nice  fellow  for  your  school!  " 

C.  J.,  in  his  shirt  and  trousers,  looked  down  very 
tenderly  on  the  little  quivering  figure  in  flannels. 
Kenyon  was  standing  awkwardly,  as  he  sometimes 
would  when  tired. 

"  My  dear  old  fellow,  it  was  only  a  game — yet  it  was 
life!  We  live  our  lives  as  we  play  our  games;  and  we 
must  be  sportsmen,  and  bide  by  the  umpire's  decision, 
and  go  out  grinning  when  it's  against  us.  Do  you  see, 
Ken?  " 

"  I  see,"  said  Kenyon,  with  sudden  firmness.     "  I 
have  learnt  a  lesson.    I'll  never  forget  it." 
2 


18  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

"Ah,  you  may  learn  many  a  lesson  from  cricket, 
Kenyon,"  said  C.  J.  "  And  when  you  have  learnt  to 
play  the  game — pluckily — unselfishly — as  well  as  you 
can — then  you've  learnt  how  to  live  too! "  He  was 
only  saying  what  he  has  been  preaching  to  his  school 
ever  since;  but  now  he  says  that  no  one  has  ever  at- 
tended to  him  as  Kenyon  did. 

Kenyon  looked  up  with  wet,  pleading  eyes.  "  Then 
— you  will  have  me  at  St.  Crispin's?  " 

But  C.  J.  only  ruffled  the  boy's  brown  hair. 


Ill 

A  variety  of  hindrances  prevented  Forrester  from 
revisiting  Kenyon's  father  until  August  in  the  follow- 
ing year,  when  he  arrived  in  the  grey  evening  of  a  re- 
pulsive day.  As  before,  he  came  straight  from  the 
Nottingham  match;  he  had  started  his  school,  but 
was  getting  as  much  cricket  as  he  could  in  the  holi- 
days. It  was  raining  heavily  when  he  jumped  out 
of  the  carriage  which  had  been  sent  to  meet  him. 
Mr.  Harwood  shook  his  hand  in  the  cold  twilight  of 
the  hall.  House  and  host  seemed  silent  and  depressed. 
Forrester  looked  for  Kenyon — for  his  hat,  for  some 
sign  of  him — as  one  searches  for  a  break  in  the  clouds. 

"  Where's  the  boy? "  was  his  first  question. 
"  AVhere's  Kenyon?  " 

"  Kenyon?    In  bed." 


KENYON'S  INNINGS  19 

"Since  when?" 

"  The  beginning  of  last  month." 

Forrester  looked  horrified;  his  manner  seemed  to 
irritate  Mr.  Harwood. 

"  Surely  I  wrote  and  told  you;  have  you  forgotten? 
I  wrote  to  say  he  couldn't  come  last  term,  that  he  had 
fallen  off  during  the  winter,  and  was  limping  badly. 
Didn't  you  get  the  letter?  But  you  did;  you  an- 
swered it." 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  know  all  that,"  said  Forrester,  still 
bewildered.  "  I  answered,  and  you  never  answered 
me.  Then  the  term  came  on,  and  you  don't  know 
what  it  was.  I  had  all  my  time  taken  up,  every  mo- 
ment. And  I  have  been  playing  cricket  ever  since 
we  broke  up.  But — the  truth  is,  I've  been  having  the 
most  cheerful  letters  from  Kenyon  all  the  time!  " 

"  That's  it;  he  is  cheerful." 

"  He  never  said  he  was  in  bed." 

"  You  weren't  to  know  of  it  on  any  account.  But 
I  thought  you  would  be  prepared  for  it." 

"  Not  with  those  letters.  I  can  hardly  believe  it. 
Will  he— won't  he  be  able " 

"  No,  never;  but  you  will  find  him  as  keen  about 
it  as  ever,  and  as  mad  on  cricket.  He  tells  me,  by  the 
way,  you've  been  doing  great  things  yesterday — in 
fact  I  read  him  the  report — and  he's  wild  with  delight 
about  it.  Come  up  and  see  him.  You'll  get  another 
ovation." 

Forrester  nodded,  setting  his  teeth.     While  they 


20  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

were  conversing  Ethel  had  entered  the  hall,  shaken 
hands  with  him,  and  vanished  up  the  shallow  stairs, 
leaving  the  hall  more  gloomy  than  before.  He  re- 
membered this  presently;  also  that  Ethel,  in  a  single 
year,  seemed  changed  from  a  child  to  a  woman.  But 
at  the  time  he  could  see  one  thing  only,  a  vision,  a 
memory.  The  peculiar  sadness  in  Mr.  Harwood's 
tones,  the  tenderness  which  was  still  untender,  though 
very  different  from  last  year's  note,  was  yet  to  strike 
him.  He  could  think  only  of  Kenyon  as  he  best  re- 
membered him,  playing  cricket  with  a  sunburnt  face, 
ardent,  triumphant,  angry,  penitent,  ashamed — and 
of  Kenyon  as  he  dreaded  to  look  upon  him  now. 

Mr.  Harwood  stopped  on  the  stairs. 

"  I  wish  you  could  help  me  in  one  thing,  Charlie. 
He  is  still  counting  on  your  school,  and  now  he  can 
never  go.  He  needn't  know  this;  but  could  you — I 
do  so  wish  you  could  make  him  think  less  about  it!  " 

Forrester  coloured  a  little.  "  I  wish  I  could,"  he 
said,  thoughtfully;  "  and  perhaps  I  can,  for  somehow 
I  myself  am  less  anxious  to  have  him  than  I  was  last 
year.  I  have  often  been  thankful  he  wasn't  one  of  the 
boys  this  last  term.  I  couldn't  have  borne  to  pitch 
into  him  as  I  have  had  to  pitch  into  most  of  them. 
When  I  was  here  before  I  only  looked  on  the  pleasant 
side  of  it  all.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  can  tell  him  there's  an- 
other side." 

Kenyon  looked  a  great  length  as  he  lay  stretched 
out  in  bed;   he  seemed  to  have  grown  a  good  deal. 


KENYON'S  INNINGS  21 

His  thin  lace  was  flushed  with  anticipation;  his  fine 
eyes  burnt  eagerly;  he  had  heard  the  wheels  in  the 
wet  gravel  under  his  window,  and  C.  J.'s  voice  in  the 
hall  and  on  the  stairs.  A  thin  white  arm  lay  over  the 
counterpane,  the  fingers  clasping  a  newspaper.  As 
Forrester  entered,  with  a  trepidation  of  which  he  was 
ashamed,  the  thin  arm  flourished  the  newspaper 
wildly. 

"  Well  played,  sir! "  thundered  Kenyon  from  his 
pillow.  "  Your  score  won  the  match;  come  and  shake 
hands  on  it! " 

Forrester,  who  had  certainly  troubled  the  Notting- 
ham bowlers  this  time,  was  more  taken  aback  than  he 
had  ever  been  on  the  cricket-field,  where  astonishing 
things  do  happen.  He  went  to  the  bedside,  and  sat 
down  there,  and  pressed  the  small  boy's  slender  hands; 
but  he  had  not  a  thing  to  say. 

"  The  Sportsman,"  continued  Kenyon,  beating  the 
bed  with  that  paper,  "says  it  was  a  fine  display  of 
cricket,  and  that  you're  in  splendid  form  just  now. 
So  you  are.  Look  what  you  did  against  Surrey!  Do 
you  remember  how  that  match  came  after  Notts  last 
year,  and  you  left  here  to  play  in  it?  I'm  glad  it  was 
the  other  way  round  this  season;  and  oh,  I  say,  how 
glad  I  am  you've  come!  " 

"  Dear  old  boy!  But — look  here — don't  you  think 
you  might  have  told  me  you  were  like  this,  old  fel- 
low? " 

Kenyon  tossed  his  head  on  the  pillow. 


22  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 


C( 


I  couldn't.     It  was  too  sickening.     Besides,  1 


thought " 

"  Well?  " 

"  You  mightn't  be  awfully  keen  to  come,  you 
know." 

"  You  needn't  have  thought  that,  Kenyon.  I  can't 
believe  you  did  think  it." 

"  Well,  I  won't  swear  that  I  did.  Anyhow  I  didn't 
want  you  to  know  before  you  must — for  lots  of  rea- 
sons." 

Forrester  let  the  reasons  alone:  he  could  divine  one 
of  them:  the  boy  had  hoped  to  be  up  and  well  before 
he  came.  Forrester  wondered  whether  that  hope  held 
yet,  and  if  it  did,  whether  he  honestly  could  share  it 
any  longer.  He  looked  at  Kenyon  as  he  confronted 
this  question:  the  flush  of  pleasure  and  excitement 
had  subsided  from  the  young  wan  face,  which  had 
now  an  unhealthy  pallor.  His  face  had  been  the  best 
thing  about  Kenyon  last  year,  the  thing  that  inspired 
confidence  and  faith.  Forrester  strove  to  talk  more 
cricket.  Kenyon  had  a  hundred  pet  cricketers,  his 
favourites  and  friends  on  paper,  whom  he  spoke  of  by 
their  initials  and  knew  intimately  on  the  cricket- 
fields  of  his  fancy,  as  formerly  he  had  known  and 
spoken  of  C.  J.  himself.  C.  J.  tried  to  tell  him  of 
those  he  had  met  lately;  but  the  young  fellow  was  all 
distraught,  he  could  not  think  of  the  right  men,  and 
took  the  newspaper  to  his  assistance. 

"  So  John  still  gets  you  the  Sportsman! " 


KENYON'S   INNINGS  23 

"  No,  John  doesn't." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  he's  left?  " 

"Bather  not!  He  conies  up  to  see  me  every  day; 
the  governor  fetches  him;  and  it's  the  governor  who 
brings  me  the  Sportsman." 

«  Eeally?  " 

"  Yes,  and  Cricket  and  the  Field,  and  all  the  other 
papers  that  you  see  all  over  the  shop." 

"  It's  too  dark  to  see  all  over  the  shop,"  said  For- 
rester, throwing  the  Sportsman  aside.  "  I  call  it 
very  good  of  your  father,  though." 

"  He  is  good.  He's  awfully  good  to  me  since  I've 
been  lying-up,  the  governor.  He  sits  with  me  a  lot, 
and  reads  and  talks  to  me;  he  reads  awfully  well. 
But  he  doesn't  understand  much  about  cricket, 
doesn't  care  for  it.  He  reads  me  the  full  account  of 
the  play  when  I've  looked  at  the  score;  but  I'd  as 
soon  read  them  to  myself  if  it  wasn't  for  offending 
him.  You  see,  he  can't  be  interested,  though  he 
says  he  is.  I  should  think  he'd  be  very  glad  if  you  did 
it  for  him — if  you  would." 

Forrester  was  thinking.  Mr.  Harwood  had  left 
him  alone  with  Kenyon,  hardly  entering  the  room 
himself;  he  had  turned  away  with  a  look  which  For- 
rester happened  to  see,  but  failed  to  understand. 
Now  he  had  a  clue :  perhaps  Kenyon  had  greeted  him 
as  he  never  greeted  his  father,  that  father  who  by  the 
boy's  own  showing  was  trying  at  the  last  to  be  his 
friend.     The  thought  troubled  Forrester.     He  had 


24  SOME    PERSONS    UNKNOWN 

been  touched  by  a  something  in  ]\lr.  Harwood's  man- 
ner, in  the  hall,  on  the  stairs,  and  still  more  by  what 
Kenyon  had  just  told  him;  he  was  pleased  with  Ken- 
yon's  evident  appreciation  of  his  father's  kindness; 
but — there  were  more  buts  than  he  could  sort  or 
separate  now  and  here.  What  he  did  feel  instantly, 
and  acutely,  was  a  premonition  of  involuntary  inter- 
vention, on  his  own  part,  between  father  and  child. 
In  his  difficulty  he  pushed  the  long  brown  hair  from 
Kenyon's  forehead,  and  looked  gently  into  the  eager 
eyes. 

"We'll  see,  old  fellow,"  he  said  at  last;  "your 
father  mightn't  quite  like  it,  I  think;  and  of  course, 
as  you  say,  you  must  take  care  not  to  offend  him. 
Stick  to  that,  Kenyon;  always  be  good  to  your  father 
and  Ethel." 

"  They're  awfully  good  to  me,  certainly,"  said  Ken- 
yon, with  a  sigh.  "  Dear  old  Ethel!  Have  you  seen 
her  with  her  hair  up,  C.  J.?  " 

"  I  just  saw  her  in  the  hall;  she  is  quite  grown  up." 

"  She's  a  brick.  ...  Do  you  really  think  the 
governor  would  mind — you  reading  the  cricket,  I 
mean?  It  must  bore  him,  no  matter  what  he  says; 
how  can  it  help  doing?  " 

"  It  might  bore  him  to  read  it  to  himself;  it  may 
delight  him  to  read  it  to  you." 

Kenyon  turned  his  cheek  to  the  pillow,  and  stared 
at  the  dismal  evening  sky.  No  doubt  he  was  wonder- 
ing, in  his  small  way,  if  he  was  a  very  ungrateful,  un- 


KENYON'S  INNINGS  25 

natural  son;  and  trying  to  account  for  it,  if  it  was  so; 
and  wishing  he  were  comfortably  certain  it  was  not 
so. 

"  Besides,"  added  Forrester,  "  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
stay  many  days,  you  know."  Indeed  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  better  not  stay;  but  Kenyon's  eyes  were 
on  him  in  a  twinkling. 

"  How  many?  "  he  asked,  almost  with  a  gasp. 

"  A  week  at  the  outside;  it's  the  Lancashire  match 
the  week  after  next." 

Again  Kenyon  turned,  and  his  sharp  profile  looked 
sharper  than  before  against  the  pillow.  "  Of  course 
you  must  play  against  Lancashire — and  make  your 
century,"  he  said,  with  such  a  hollow  heartiness  that, 
first-class  cricketer  as  he  was,  and  few  as  were  his 
present  opportunities  for  first-class  cricket,  C.  J.  in- 
stantly resolved  to  cancel  all  remaining  engagements. 

Kenyon  went  on: 

"I'm  hoping  to  get  up,  you  know,  before  long. 
Surely  I've  been  here  long  enough?  It's  all  rot,  I  say, 
keeping  you  in  bed  like  this;  you  get  as  weak  as  a  cat. 
I  believe  the  governor  thinks  so  too.  I  know  they're 
going  to  have  a  doctor  down  from  London  to  see  me. 
If  he  lets  me  get  up,  and  you  come  back  after  you've 
made  that  century,  we  might  have  some  more  cricket, 
mightn't  we?  I'd  give  anything  to  have  some  before 
the  term  begins.  I  want  another  of  those  leg-hits!  I 
say,  they  think  I  might  be  able  to  go  to  St.  Crispin's 
next  term,  don't  they?  " 


26  SOME   PEESONS   UNKNOWN 

Forrester  remembered.  "  I  don't  know.  You 
might  be  able,  perhaps." 

"  Why  do  you  say  it  like  that?  " 

"  Shall  I  tell  you,  old  fellow?  I'm  not  quite  so 
keen  on  having  you  as  I  was  a  year  ago.  Stop!  I'll 
tell  you  why.  I  didn't  realise  what  it  would  be  like. 
I  rather  fancied  I  should  have  a  dozen  Kenyons,  and 
that  Kenyon  at  school  would  be  a  saint:  which  was 
absurd,  old  fellow.  I  thought  I  should  never,  never, 
never  lose  my  temper  with  you.  Absurd  again!  We 
talked,  you  and  I,  of  what  we  knew  nothing  about; 
i"  know  something  now;  and  it  isn't  all  skittles  and 
beer,  Kenyon.  Listen:  there  wasn't  a  fellow  in  the 
school  I  didn't  punish  time  after  time.  Punish  is  a 
jolly  word,  isn't  it?  It  would  have  been  nice  for  us 
both,  wouldn't  it,  my  punishing  you?  Kenyon,  there 
were  two  fellows  I  had  to  swish!  You  understand? 
I  felt  thankful  you  weren't  there.  I  don't  any  longer 
feel  that  I  want  you  there.  I'd  rather  some  other 
man  kept  you  in,  Kenyon,  and  licked  you,  old  fellow, 
when  you  needed  it."  The  truth  is,  Forrester  had 
long  had  all  this  on  his  mind;  as  he  uttered  the  last 
of  it,  he  almost  forgot  why  he  had  spoken  now,  and 
what  Mr.  Harwood  had  said  on  the  stairs. 

Kenyon  lay  very  still,  watching  the  darkling  sky 
split  in  two  by  the  window-sashes.  He  had  dreamed 
of  that  school  so  often,  he  had  looked  forward  to  it  so 
long.  It  was  hard  suddenly  to  stop  looking  forward, 
to  have  no  more  happy  imaginary  school-days  from 


KENYON'S   INNINGS  27 

this  moment  forth;  but  if  the  real  ones  could  never 
have  been  so  happy,  then  he  should  feel  thankful; 
and  in  any  case  there  was  less  immediate  necessity  to 
be  up  and  well,  which  in  itself  was  a  relief.  It  was 
sensibly  darker,  however,  when  Kenyon  spoke,  and 
once  more  his  tone  was  a  little  forced. 

"  I  suppose  you're  right.  I'm  glad  you've  told  me 
this,  C.  J.  I'm  not  so  keen  now,  though  I  have  been 
counting.  ...  I  suppose  I  couldn't  even  have 
called  you  C.  J.,  eh?" 

"  No,  you'd  have  had  to  '  sir '  me." 

"  Indeed,  sir!  Then  I'm  thankful  I'm  not  going, 
sir!  There's  the  gong,  sir,  yes,  sir,  you  must  go  and 
dress,  sir!  The  governor'll  bring  you  up  with  him  to 
say  good-night.  And  to-morrow — I've  heaps  of 
things  to  tell  you  to-morrow,  C.  J.  I'll  think  of  'em 
all  night — sir!  " 

There  were  tears  on  his  eyelashes,  nevertheless;  but 
the  room  was  now  really  dark;  his  friend  could  not 
see. 

IV 

Forrester's  disquieting  apprehension  of  intrusion 
on  his  part,  of  that  cruel  intervention  from  which  he 
shrank,  was  not  for  long  a  vague  sensation.  Mr.  Har- 
wood  himself  defined  it,  and  with  startling  candour, 
that  very  evening  after  dinner. 

Forrester  had  described  the  latter  part  of  his  chat 
with  Kenyon,  the  part  arising  from  something  Mr. 


28  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

Harwood  had  said  on  the  stairs,  and  from  that  other 
thing  which  had  long  been  in  his  own  mind.  "  I 
wouldn't  have  Kenyon,  now  I  know  what  it  is  like," 
he  had  averred,  with  all  the  earnestness  he  had  em- 
ployed upstairs. 

"You  wouldn't  get  him,"  said  Mr.  Harwood,  in 
sad  irony.  "  He  will  never  be  well  enough,  Bodley 
is  sure,  to  go  to  school." 

"  Is  Dr.  Bodley  a  very  good  man?  " 

"  He  is  a  very  good  doctor  in  ordinary,  so  to  speak; 
but  Kenyon's  case  is  not  exactly  ordinary.  Bodley  is 
getting  down  a  London  man,  a  specialist,  for  a  con- 
sultation.   Kenyon  knows  about  it." 

"  Yes,  he  thought  it  was  to  see  whether  he  might 
get  up." 

"  'Whether  there  is  the  least  chance  of  his  ever 
getting  up,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  I  don't  myself  think 
he  ever  will.  There  is  some  hopeless  disease  of  the 
hip.  An  operation  is  the  only  chance,  and  you  know 
what  a  faint  one." 

"I'm  glad  I'm  here!"  Forrester  involuntarily  ex- 
claimed; and  it  was  at  this  that  Mr.  Harwood  had 
pierced  him  with  his  eye,  and  spoken  his  mind. 

"  I  am  glad  too,"  said  he,  slowly;  "  yet  I  am  sore — 
God  knows  how  sore!  " 

The  young  man  moved  in  his  chair,  but  did  not 
rise.  Mr.  Harwood  held  him  with  his  eye.  Forrester 
leant  his  elbow  on  the  table,  his  head  against  his  palm, 
arid  met  that  bitter,  pitiable,  yearning  gaze. 


KENYON'S   INNINGS  20 

"  I  am  glad  because  Kenyon  wanted  you  so  much; 
sore,  because  he  wanted  you  so  much.  Look  at  the 
reception  he  gave  you,  ill  as  he  is!  /  never  make  him 
like  that.  I  might  have  left  him  for  weeks,  alone  with 
Ethel  and  the  servants,  and  he  wouldn't  have  wel- 
comed me  so.  Yet  I  am  always  with  the  boy.  I  do 
everything  for  him.  I  have  been  another  man  to  him, 
Charlie,  since  you  were  here  last  year.  You  taught 
me  a  lesson.  I  don't  know  whether  to  like  you  or  hate 
you  for  it.  You  taught  me  to  be  my  boy's  friend — at 
any  rate  to  try.  It  wasn't  easy.  We  tired  each  other 
— we  always  did — we  always  may.  We  irritate  each 
other  too:  he  will  seem  frightened  and  fight  shy  of 
me.  I  suppose  I  deserve  it — God  knows!  We  have 
understood  each  other  better,  we  have  tired  each  other 
less — I  am  sure — since  he  has  been  up  yonder.  But 
all  the  time,  mark  you,  he  has  been  looking  forward 
to  your  coming — to  going  to  your  school  in  the  end. 
About  that  he  has  talked  incessantly — as  if  it  were 
the  one  thing  to  get  better  for — and  about  you. 
You're  his  hero,  he  worships  you;  I  am  only  his 
father.    You  are  everything  to  him.    .    .    ." 

Forrester  was  inexpressibly  shocked  and  moved. 
"  You  are  mistaken,  believe  me  you  are! "  he  cried 
earnestly.  "  He  has  been  telling  me  already  how  good 
you  are  to  him,  of  all  you  do  for  him." 

"  Ah!  he  is  a  good  boy;  he  is  very  grateful.  He 
always  says  '  Thank  you' — to  me!  Heaven,  how  I 
wish  he'd  forget  that  sometimes!    But  no;  it  was  in 


30  SOME   PEESONS   UNKNOWN 

those  little  things  that  I  was  continually  finding  fault 
with  him,  and  now  it's  his  turn.  He  has  a  special 
manner  for  me.  He  thinks  before  he  speaks  when  he 
speaks  to  me.  And  I  see  it  all!  Why,  I  stand  outside 
the  door,  and  hear  him  talking  to  Ethel,  and  when  I 
open  it  his  very  key  changes.  With  you  it's  a  hundred 
times  worse.  With  you — God  help  me!  "  cried  Har- 
wood,  with  a  harsh  laugh,  "  I'm  like  a  child  myself 
.  .  .  jealous  of  you  ...  for  winning  what  I 
never  tried  nor  deserved  to  win." 

He  wiped  the  moisture  from  his  face,  and  sat  cold 
and  still. 

"  I'll  go  to-morrow! "  said  Forrester,  hoarsely. 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  retorted  the 
other  in  his  normal  voice.  "  You  will  stay  as  long  as 
you  like — and  Kenyon  needs  you." 


C.  J.  was  early  abroad  next  morning — as  once  be- 
fore. The  weather  had  cleared  up  in  the  night.  Sun- 
light and  dew  did  just  what  they  had  done  that  other 
morning  of  yester-year.  Sounds  and  scents  were  the 
same  now  as  then.  So  Forrester  tried  to  imagine  it 
was  then,  and  to  conjure  Kenyon  to  his  side.  But 
Kenyon  lay  in  bed  behind  yonder  blind  on  the  sunny 
side  of  the  house,  and  his  friend  wandered  desolate 
over  last  year's  ground.    He  looked  into  the  flagged 


KENYON'S  INNINGS  31 

yard  where  painted  wickets  still  disfigured  a  certain 
buttress:  he  was  sorry  he  had  thrown  cold  water  on 
"  snob."  On  the  lawn  he  saw  other  wickets,  which  no 
man  had  pitched,  and  worn  places  that  had  long  been 
green.  There  was  the  peach-house,  with  the  sun 
gleaming  where  once  the  rain  had  beaten  an  accom- 
paniment to  "  Willow  the  King."  He  could  hear  the 
song — he  can  hear  it  still.  Then  he  met  John,  who 
was  visibly  inconvenienced;  and  returning  to  the 
house,  he  found  Ethel  on  the  steps.  She  looked  very 
fresh  and  beautiful,  but  the  young  man's  heart  was  in 
the  room  upstairs,  where  her  heart  was  also.  A  com- 
mon bond  of  sadness  drew  them  insensibly  together. 
They  remained  there,  very  silent,  till  the  gong 
sounded  within. 

Something  that  Mr.  Harwood  told  him,  a  letter  in 
his  hand,  as  they  sat  down  to  breakfast,  caused  For- 
rester to  run  upstairs  the  moment  they  rose.  Kenyon 
received  him  with  grateful  eyes,  but  with  a  very  slight 
salute  this  morning.  Sunshine  flooded  the  room, 
even  to  the  edge  of  the  bed.  Things  invisible  in  the 
dusk  of  the  previous  evening  caught  the  strong  light 
and  the  eye  now — the  bottles,  the  graduated  glasses, 
the  bed-table,  the  framed  photograph  of  Kenyon's 
mother  hanging  on  the  screen.  And  Kenyon  himself, 
with  the  sun  clasping  his  long  brown  hair,  and  filling 
the  hollows  of  his  pinched  face,  was  a  more  distinct 
and  a  much  more  pitiful  figure  this  morning. 

"  You  know  what's  going  to  happen  to-day,  C.  J.?  n 


32  SOME    PERSONS    UNKNOWN 

"  The  doctors  are  coming — the  one  from  London. 
Your  father  told  me  just  before  breakfast." 

"  Call  them  the  umpires/"  said  Kenyon  in  a  queer 
tone.    "  Say  they're  going  to  give  me  in  or  out!  " 

Forrester  made  no  remark.  Kenyon  lay  watching 
him. 

"  You're  perfectly  right,  C.  J.  I  thought  of  that 
before.  I  thought  of  it  in  the  night.  I  had  time  to 
think  plenty,  last  night!  " 

"  Couldn't  you  sleep?  " 

"  Not  a  wink  in  the  night.  I've  slept  a  little  since 
daylight." 

"  Were  you — you  were  in  pain,  Kenyon!  " 

"  Don't  speak  of  it,"  said  Kenyon,  grimly.  "  It  was 
so  bad  that  I  didn't  care  what  happened  to  me;  and 
I  don't  care  now,  when  I  remember  it.  I'm  thankful 
the  doctors  are  coming  this  morning — I  mean  the  um- 
pires. Anything's  better  than  last  night  over  again. 
I've  felt  nothing  like  it  before." 

"  And  you  never  will  again,  old  fellow !  I  know 
you  won't.    They'll  see  to  that!  "• 

"Will  they?"  Kenyon  made  a  wistful  pause.  "So 
I  thought  up  to  last  night:  I  thought  they'd  get  me 
up  and  out  again.  In  the  night  I  gave  up  thinking 
so.  I  lay  here,  C.  J.,  and  asked  only  to  be  put  out  of 
my  misery.  I  never  had  such  a  bad  night  before — 
nothing  like.  I've  had  my  bad  ones,  but  I  used  to  grin 
and  bear  it,  and  think  away  of  St.  Crispin's,  and  you, 
and  the  fellows.    But  last  night " 


KENYON'S   INNINGS  33 


"  Well?  "  said  C.  J.  in  a  hard  voice.  His  heart  had 
smitten  him. 

"  Well,  you'd  made  me  give  up  the  idea  of  St.  Cris- 
pin's, you  know.  Don't  look  like  that — it's  just  as 
well  you  did.  Only  I  hadn't  it  to  think  about  in  the 
night.    I  missed  it." 

He  shut  his  eyes:  he  had  been  thinking  of  St. 
Crispin's,  but  not  in  the  old  way,  no  longer  as  within 
his  reach.  Ideals  are  not  shattered  so  easily  by  hear- 
say, and  St.  Crispin's  was  heaven  to  Kenyon  still, 
though  now  he  might  not  enter  in.  Well,  one  would 
rather  never  get  there  than  find  heaven  imperfect  too. 
And  Kenyon,  had  he  been  older,  would  have  appre- 
ciated his  blessedness  in  being  permitted  to  lay  down 
this  ideal  unsubstantiated  and  as  good  as  new;  for 
not  C.  J.,  but  experience  only,  could  have  razed  so 
solid  a  castle  in  the  air;  C.  J.  had  only  lifted  the 
drawbridge  against  Kenyon  forever. 

But  Forrester  was  thinking  of  the  night  before. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  speak  as  though  school  were 
the  only  thing  you  had  to  live  for!  " 

"  Well,  it  was  the  thing  I  wanted  to  get  better  for," 
replied  Kenyon,  frankly;  "  one  of  the  things,  any- 
how. Of  course  I  want  to  be  up  and  out  here  as  well. 
I  love  this  dear  old  place!  " 

"Do  you  want  to  get  strong  only  for  your  own 

sake?"  Forrester  could  not  help  saying,  gently.    "Do 

you  never  think  of  Ethel,  of  your  father?    I  am  sure 

you  do! " 
3 


34  SOME   PERSONS    UNKNOWN 

Kenyon  coloured. 

"  Don't,  old  fellow!  It's  hard  to  think  of  anybody 
but  yourself  when  you're  laid  up  in  bed  for  weeks 
and  weeks.  But  Ethel  knows  that  I  do  sometimes 
think  about  her;  and  that  reminds  me,  C.  J.;  I  was 
going  to  ask  you  to  play  tennis  with  her,  or  take  her 
out  for  a  ride,  or  something.  She  wants  to  come  out 
of  her  shell.  And  then  the  governor,  he's  so  decent 
to  me  now,  of  course  I'd  like  to  get  better  for  his  sake 
too.  I  think  he'd  make  less  fuss  about  the  windows 
now — I'd  like  to  break  another  and  see!  But  it's  no 
good  pretending  I'm  as  sorry  for  them  as  for  myself. 
I  can't  be." 

"  You  are  very  honest,"  said  Forrester,  looking 
kindly  into  the  great  bright  eyes.  "  I  wish  all  my  fel- 
lows were  as  brave  and  honest  as  you! " 

"  I'm  not  so  brave.  You  don't  know  what  I've  gone 
through  up  here,  alone  in  the  night,  apart  from  the 
pain.  I've  been  thinking  about — it.  C.  J.,  I  don't 
know,  now,  that  I'm  going  to  get  better  at  all.  I  pray 
to,  and  I  try  to,  but  I  don't  know  that  I  am.  I  say, 
don't  hook  it!  I  daren't  say  it  very  loud.  You're  the 
first  I've  said  it  to  at  all.  It  only  came  to  me  last 
night  .  .  .  and  it  does  seem  hard  lines.  Look  at 
the  sun!  With  the  window  open  like  this,  and  your 
eyes  shut,  it's  almost  as  good  as  lying  out  on  the  grass. 
Dear  old  place!  .  .  .  Why  have  you  hooked  it? 
What  are  you  looking  out  of  the  window  for?  They 
can't  be  coming  yet!  " 


KENYON'S   INNINGS  35 

But  they  were,  as  it  happened,  though  that  was  not 
why  Forrester  had  risen;  nor  had  he  answered  when 
Kenyon  heard  the  wheels. 

"  What  a  bother,  C.  J.!  There  was  something  else 
I  meant  to  tell  you;  must  you  scoot?  Then  come  up 
after  the  umpires  have  been,  and  tell  me  what  they 
say — yourself.    You  sha'n't  go  till  you  promise!  " 


VI 


When  C.  J.  returned,  the  sun  shone  into  the  room 
no  more;  it  was  afternoon. 

Kenyon  was  very  white. 

"Well?" 

"  Kenyon,  they  don't  know!  " 

"  But  they're  still  in  the  house.  Why  haven't  they 
gone?  WThat  are  they  waiting  for?  Tell  me,  C.  J. 
You  said  you'd  tell  me!  " 

"  Poor  old  Kenyon — dear  old  fellow! "  faltered 
Forrester.  "  I  promised  to  tell  you,  I  know  I  did,  and 
downstairs  they've  asked  me  to.  Now  you'll  never 
feel  it,  Kenyon.  They're  going  to  do  something 
which  may  make  you  better.  You — you'll  be  put  to 
sleep — you'll  never  feel  a  thing! " 

"When  is  it  to  be?" 

"  This  afternoon — very  soon." 

Kenyon  drew  a  hard  breath. 

"  You've  got  to  be  in  the  room,  C.  J.!  * 


36  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

«  Very  well,  if  they  will  let  me.  But  you'll  never 
know,  Ken  yon — you'll  know  nothing  at  all  about  it!  " 

"  They  must  let  you.  You've  got  to  hold  my  hand 
right  through,  whether  I  feel  anything  or  not. 
See?" 

"  My  dear  boy!    My  brave  old  fellow!  " 

"  It's  a  bargain?  " 

"  I'd  better  go  and  ask  them  now." 

"Hold  on  a  bit.  How  you  do  like  to  do  a  bolt!  I 
wish  this  hadn't  come  so  soon  .  .  .  there  was  so 
much  I'd  got  to  tell  you  ...  all  what  I  thought 
of  in  the  night.  You  know  the  game  we  had,  the 
night  before  you  went,  last  summer?  John  would 
call  it  Gentlemen  and  Players;  poor  old  John!  I  re- 
member every  bit  of  it — especially  that  leg-hit.  It 
was  sweet!  Well,  when  Ethel  got  run  out,  and  our 
side  lost — ah!  I  thought  you'd  remember — I  played 
the  fool,  and  you  told  me  not  to  grumble  at  the  um- 
pire's decision.  You  said  life  was  like  cricket,  and  I 
mustn't  dispute  the  umpire,  but  go  out  grinning " 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,  Kenyon!  You  know  I  didn't! 
I  never  thought " 

"Perhaps  not,  but  I  did  in  the  night;  and  I'm 
thinking  of  it  now,  C.  J.,  I'm  thinking  of  nothing 
else! " 


KENYON'S  INiNIiNUS  37 


VII 

Kenyon  had  rallied:  nearly  a  week  had  passed.  It 
had  done  no  good,  but  it  had  not  killed  him. 

The  afternoon  was  hot,  and  still,  and  golden.  The 
window  of  Kenyon's  room  was  wide  open;  it  had 
been  wide  open  every  day.  Below,  on  the  court  be- 
yond the  drive,  Forrester  and  Ethel  were  playing  at 
playing  a  single.  Kenyon  had  rallied  so  surprisingly, 
and  had  himself  begged  them  to  play.  He  could  not 
hear  them,  he  was  asleep;  it  was  a  pity;  but  he  was 
sleeping  continually.  Mr.  Harwood  sat  by  Kenyon 
in  the  deep  arm-chair.  He  had  sent  the  nurse  to  lie 
down  in  her  room.  The  afternoon,  though  brilliant, 
was  still  and  oppressive. 

How  long  he  slept!  Mr.  Harwood  seldom  took  his 
eyes  from  the  smooth  white  forehead,  whiter  than 
usual  under  its  thatch  of  brown  hair.  It  was  damp 
also,  and  the  hair  clung  to  it.  Mr.  Harwood  would 
smooth  back  the  hair,  and  actually  not  wake  Kenyon 
with  the  sponge.  His  untrained  ringers  were  grown 
incredibly  light  and  tender.  He  would  stand  for 
minutes  when  he  had  done  this,  gazing  down  on  the 
pale  young  face  with  the  long  brown  locks  and  lashes. 
They  were  Kenyon's  mother's  eyelashes,  as  long  and 
as  dark.  When  Mr.  Harwood  raised  his  eyes  from  the 
boy,  it  was  to  gaze  at  her  photograph  on  the  screen. 
Kenyon  in  his  sleep  was  extremely  like  her.    The  eyes 


38  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

in  the  portrait  were  downcast  a  little;  they  seemed  to 
rest  on  Kenyon,  to  beckon  him. 

The  voices  of  Ethel  and  Forrester,  never  loud,  were 
audible  all  the  time.  And  Mr.  Harwood  was  glad  to 
hear  them.  He  did  not  want  those  two  up  here.  He 
would  not  have  Forrester  up  here  any  more;  only 
Kenyon  would.  It  was  Forrester  who  had  held  the 
child's  unconscious  hand  during  the  operation,  and 
until  Kenyon  became  sensible,  when  "  C.  J."  was  the 
first  sound  he  uttered.  There  had  been  too  much  For- 
rester all  through,  much  too  much  since  the  opera- 
tion. It  was  Kenyon's  doing,  and  Kenyon  must  have 
all  his  wishes  now.  It  was  not  Forrester's  fault.  Mr. 
Harwood  knew  this,  and  hated  Kenyon's  friend  the 
more  bitterly  for  the  feeling  that  another  man  would 
have  loved  him. 

How  Kenyon  slept!  How  strange,  how  shallow, 
his  breath  seemed  all  at  once!  Mr.  Harwood  rose 
again,  and  again  smoothed  the  long  hair  back  from 
the  forehead.  The  forehead  glistened:  and  this  time 
Kenyon  awoke.  There  was  a  dim  unseeing  look  in 
his  eyes.  He  held  out  a  hand,  and  Mr.  Harwood 
grasped  it,  dropping  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed. 

"  Stick  to  my  hand.  Never  let  go  again.  Eemem- 
ber  what  you  told  me?  /  do — I'm  thinking  of  it 
now! " 

Mr.  Harwood  did  not  remember  telling  him  any  one 
thing.  He  was  kneeling  with  his  back  to  the  window. 
Kenyon's  sentences  had  come  with  long  intervals  be- 


KENYON'S   INNINGS  39 

tween  them,  and  accompanied  by  the  most  loving 
glances  his  father  had  ever  received  from  him.  The 
father's  heart  throbbed  violently.  Perhaps  he  realised 
that  his  boy  was  dying;  he  was  more  acutely  conscious 
that  Kenyon  and  he  were  alone  together,  and  that 
childish  love  and  trust  had  come  at  last  into  the  dear, 
dying  eyes.  He  had  striven  so  hard  to  win  this  look 
— had  longed  for  it  of  late  with  so  mighty  a  longing! 
And  at  the  last  it  was  his.  What  else  was  there  to 
grasp? 

Kenyon  began  to  murmur  indistinctly — about 
cricket — about  getting  out.  Mr.  Harwood  leant 
closer  to  catch  the  words,  and  to  drink  deeper  while 
he  could  of  the  dim  loving  eyes.  But  there  came  sud- 
denly a  change  of  expression.  Kenyon  was  silent. 
And  Mr.  Harwood  never  knew  why. 

In  the  garden  they  heard  the  cry,  and  sped  into  the 
house,  and  up  the  stairs  and  into  the  room,  warm 
from  their  game.  They  opened  the  door  and  stood 
still;  for  they  saw  Kenyon  as  none  ever  had  seen  him 
before,  with  his  face  upon  his  father's  shoulder,  and  a 
smile  there  such  as  Forrester  himself  had  never  won. 


A  LITERARY   COINCIDENCE 

It  was  twenty-five  minutes  past  eight,  and  a  fine 
October  morning,  when  Mr.  Wolff  Mason,  the  popular 
novelist  and  editor  of  Mayfair,  emerged  from  the 
dressing-room  of  his  house  in  Kensington  and  came 
downstairs  dabbing  his  chin  with  his  clean  pocket- 
handkerchief.  The  day  had  begun  badly  with  the 
man  of  letters,  whose  boast  it  was  that  he  had  shaved 
for  upwards  of  forty  years  without  cutting  himself 
anything  like  forty  times.  He  entered  the  dining- 
room  with  a  comically  rueful  expression  on  his  kindly 
humorous  face,  and  with  a  twitching  behind  the  spec- 
tacles which  would  have  led  those  who  knew  him  best 
to  prick  their  ears  for  one  of  the  delightful  things 
which  the  novelist  was  continually  saying  at  his  own 
expense.  His  face  fell,  however,  when  he  found  no 
one  in  the  room  but  the  maid  who  was  lighting  the 
wick  beneath  the  plated  kettle  on  the  breakfast  table. 
"  Has  Miss  Ida  not  come  down  yet?  " 
''Not  that  I  know  of,  sir.  Shall  I  go  and  see?  " 
"  Oh,  never  mind,  never  mind,"  said  the  novelist, 
cursorily  examining  the  letters  on  his  plate,  and  open- 
ing none  of  them.  "  Well,  upon  my  word,  I  don't 
know  what  has  come  over  Ida,"  he  added  to  himself, 

40 


A   LITERARY    COINCIDENCE  41 

as  he  undid  the  fastenings  of  the  French  window 
which  led  down  iron  steps  into  the  little  London  gar- 
den behind  the  house.  "  Yesterday  morning  she  ran 
it  pretty  fine.  The  day  before  she  was  a  good  minute 
late.  Of  course  she  may  be  in  time  yet,  but  I  do  wish 
I  could  teach  her  to  be  five  minutes  early  for  every- 
thing, as  I  am.  Ida  is  worse  than  either  of  her  sisters 
in  this  respect;  and  she  began  by  being  the  best  of  the 
three." 

Wolff  Mason  sighed  as  he  thought  of  his  daughters. 
The  two  elder  ones  were  married  and  settled,  very 
comfortably,  it  is  true;  but  if  Ida  followed  their  ex- 
ample, what  on  earth  was  to  become  of  her  unfortu- 
nate father?  Who  was  to  typewrite  his  manuscript, 
and  correct  his  proofs,  and  peel  the  stamps  from  the 
enclosed  envelopes  of  the  people  who  wrote  for  the 
novelist's  autograph?  No,  he  could  not  do  without 
Ida  at  any  price;  and  Mr.  Mason  shook  his  head  as 
he  passed  out  into  the  fresh  air  and  down  the  iron 
steps  into  the  garden.  He  did  more:  he  shook  his 
daughters,  and  all  creatures  of  mere  flesh  and  blood, 
quite  out  of  his  mind. 

For  it  was  Wolff  Mason's  habit  to  spend  five  min- 
utes in  the  garden,  every  morning  before  breakfast, 
when  it  was  fine;  and  when  it  was  not,  to  walk  round 
the  breakfast  table  four-and-twenty  times.  That 
filled  the  five  minutes  which  he  always  spent  in  the 
exclusive  company  of  the  characters  of  his  current 
novel.    He  had  been  heard  to  say  that  he  did  his  day's 


42  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

work  in  those  live  minutes;  that  at  the  office,  where 
he  worked  at  his  novel  all  the  morning,  he  had  only 
to  sit  with  his  pen  in  his  hand  for  three  hours,  and 
fifteen  hundred  words  of  fiction  was  the  inevitable 
result.  That  part  was  purely  mechanical,  the  novel- 
ist said.  He  had  really  written  it  in  the  five  minutes 
before  breakfast.  It  is  not  generally  known,  however, 
how  curiously  Wolff  Mason  delighted  in  humorous 
depreciation  of  his  own  work  and  methods.  One 
would  have  liked  his  critics  to  hear  him  on  the  sub- 
ject; they  took  his  writings  so  very  much  more  seri- 
ously than  he  did  himself,  that  they  little  dreamt 
how  highly  their  clever  elaborate  reviews  entertained 
the  philosophic  object  of  their  censure.  It  was  an 
open  secret  that  Wolff  Mason  professed  a  wholesome 
and  unaffected  disregard  for  posterity  and  the  critics; 
but  if  the  books  that  delighted  two  generations  are 
forgotten  by  a  third,  their  writer  will  certainly  be  re- 
membered as  the  most  charming  talker,  the  kindest- 
hearted  editor,  and  the  most  methodical  man  of  let- 
ters of  his  day. 

To  method  and  to  habit,  indeed,  the  novelist  had 
been  a  slave  all  his  literary  life.  This  he  admitted 
quite  freely.  On  the  other  hand,  he  argued  that  as 
his  habits  were  all  good  ones  in  themselves  (with  the 
possible  exception  of  that  ounce  of  tobacco  which 
he  managed  to  consume  daily),  while  his  methods 
produced  a  not  wholly  unsuccessful  result,  the  slavery 
suited  him  very  well.    Certainly  it  was  good  to  be  five 


A   LITERARY   COINCIDENCE  43 

minutes  early  for  everything,  and  to  start  most  things 
as  the  clocks  were  striking.  The  dining-room  clock 
struck  the  half-hour  after  eight  as  Mr.  Mason  re-en- 
tered and  shut  the  French  window  behind  him.  He 
had  thought  out  the  half-chapter  for  that  day  with 
even  more  than  his  customary  minute  prevision. 
This  was  all  very  good  indeed.  It  was  bad,  however, 
that  he  should  find  himself  now  quite  alone  in  the 
room,  with  the  hot  plates  and  the  bacon  growing  cold, 
the  kettle  steaming  furiously  over  the  thin  blue  flame, 
and  no  Ida  to  make  the  tea. 

Mr.  Mason  took  up  his  position  with  an  elbow  on 
the  mantel-piece  and  one  foot  to  the  fire,  and  stared 
solemnly  at  the  clock.  It  was  a  worse  case  than 
yesterday.  Two,  three,  four  minutes  passed.  Then 
there  was  a  rustle  in  the  hall;  light,  quick  footsteps 
ran  across  the  room,  and  a  nervous  little  hand  was  laid 
upon  the  novelist's  shoulder.  In  another  instant  he 
was  looking  down  into  great  dark  eyes  filled  with  the 
liveliest  contrition,  and  making  a  mental  note  of  the 
little  black  crescents  underneath. 

"  Dear  father,  can  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  I'll  try  to,  my  dear,  since  you  look  so — penitent." 

He  had  been  about  to  say  "pale."  As  he  kissed 
the  girl's  cheek,  its  pallor  was  indeed  conspicuous. 
As  a  rule  she  had  the  loveliest  colour,  which  har- 
monised charmingly  with  the  sweet  clear  brown  of 
her  eyes  and  hair.  Ida  Mason  was  in  fact  a  very  beau- 
tiful and  graceful  girl,  but  lately  she  had  grown  thin 


44  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

and  quiet,  and  the  salt  was  gone  out  of  her  in  many 
subtle  ways  which  did  not  escape  the  spectacles  of  that 
trained  observer,  her  father.  Mr.  Mason  glanced  over 
the  Times  while  his  tea  was  being  made,  and  knew  all 
that  was  in  it  before  his  cup  was  poured  out,  the 
bacon  on  his  plate,  and  the  toast-rack  set  within  easy 
reach  of  his  hand. 

"  A  singularly  dull  paper,"  said  he,  as  he  flung  it 
aside  and  Ida  sat  down. 

"Yes?" 

"  It  is  absolutely  free  from  news.  At  this  time  of 
year  there's  more  fun  in  the  papers  that  lend  them- 
selves to  egregious  contributions  from  the  public.  I 
see,  however,  that  Professor  Palliser  died  last 
night " 

"  How  dreadful!  " 

"In  his  ninety-third  year,"  added  Mr.  Mason, 
dryly,  to  his  own  sentence. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  was  thinking  of  someone  else,"  said 
Ida  lamely. 

"  Of  me,  my  dear?  Then  I  will  take  another  piece 
of  sugar,  if  you  don't  object.  The  fact  is,  you  didn't 
give  me  any  at  all.    No,  that's  the  salt!  " 

Ida  laughed  nervously.  "  I  am  so  stupid  this  morn- 
ing!   Please  forgive  me,  dear  father." 

"  I  hope  there  is  nothing  the  matter?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all." 

"  That's  right.  I  fear  that  the  religious  novel  is  to 
have  a  most  undesirable  vogue.     The  Times  review? 


A    LITERARY    COINCIDENCE  45 

three  in  one  column.     We  have  to  thank  '  Robert 
Elsmere '  for  this." 

"  And  '  J I  umphry  Ward,  Preacher,'  "  suggested  Ida. 

The  novelist  arched  his  eyebrows  and  bent  for- 
ward over  his  plate.  "Exactly,"  said  he,  after  a 
slight  pause.  He  did  not  look  at  his  daughter.  Other- 
wise he  would  have  seen  that  she  was  eating  nothing, 
and  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  It  was  plain  to 
him,  however,  that  for  some  reason  or  other,  into 
which  it  was  not  his  business  to  inquire,  it  would  be 
unkind  to  press  further  conversation  upon  Ida,  whom 
he  merely  thanked  more  affectionately  than  usual  for 
moving  his  plate  and  for  pouring  out  his  second  cup 
of  tea.  Over  breakfast  the  novelist  always  took  half 
an  hour  precisely.  The  clock  was  striking  nine  when 
he  rose  from  the  table  and  went  upstairs  to  take  leave 
of  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Mason  was  a  sweet,  frail  woman  of  sixty, 
who  for  years  had  breakfasted  in  her  own  room. 
Without  being  actually  an  invalid,  she  owed  it  to  her 
quiet  mornings  upstairs  that  she  was  still  able  to 
see  her  friends  in  the  afternoon,  and  to  dine  out  at 
moderate  intervals.  For  five-and-thirty  years  his 
wife  had  been  Wolff  Mason's  guardian  angel.  On 
her  wedding-day  she  had  been  just  as  proud  of  her 
unknown  bridegroom  as  she  was  now  of  the  cele- 
brated litterateur,  and  had  loved  the  stalwart  young 
fellow  of  eight-and-twenty  only  less  dearly  than  the 
white  old  man  of  sixty-three.     He  found  her  with 


46  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

her  tea  and  toast  growing  cold  on  the  bed-table  at 
her  side;  she  was  reading  Ida's  typewritten  copy 
of  the  novel  upon  which  he  himself  was  then 
engaged. 

"  My  dear  Wolff,"  Mrs.  Mason  exclaimed,  greeting 
her  husband  with  the  enthusiastic  smile  which  had 
inspired  and  consoled  him  in  the  composition  of  so 
many  works  of  fiction,  "  I  am  delighted  with  these 
last  chapters!  You  have  never  done  better:  you  might 
have  written  the  love  scenes  thirty  years  ago.  But 
you  look  put  out,  dear  Wolff.  Have  they  been  stupid 
downstairs  ?  " 

"  We  are  all  stupid  to-day,  including  my  dear  wife 
if  she  really  thinks  much  of  my  love  scenes.  I  cut 
myself  shaving,  to  begin  with.  Then  Ida  was  late  for 
breakfast — four  long  minutes  late — and  for  the  third 
time  this  week.  I  am  put  out,  and  it's  about  Ida.  It 
is  not  only  that  she  is  late,  but  there  are  rings  under 
her  eyes,  and  she  forgets  the  sugar  in  your  tea,  and 
when  you  ask  for  it  hands  you  the  salt,  and  when  you 
speak  to  her  she  answers  inanely.  She  pulled  a  long 
face  when  I  told  her  that  Professor  Palliser  died  last 
night,  though  the  poor  dear  old  gentleman  has  been 
on  a  public  death-bed  these  eighteen  months.  She 
came  a  fearful  howler  over  a  book  which  she  herself 
has  read,  to  my  knowledge,  within  the  last  fortnight. 
For  the  life  of  me  I  can't  think  what  ails  her." 

"  Can  you  not?  " 

Mrs.  Mason  had  put  down  the  typewritten  sheets, 


A    LITERARY    COINCIDENCE  47 

and  lay  gazing  at  her  husband  with  gentle  shrewd- 
ness in  her  kind  eyes. 

"  No,  I  cannot,"  said  the  novelist,  defiantly. 

"Have  you  quite  forgotten  Saltburn-by-the-Sea?" 

"  I  am  certainly  doing  my  best  to  forget  it,  my 
dear;  a  deadlier  fortnight  I  never  spent  in  my  life. 
Not  a  decent  library  in  the  place,  nor  a  man  in  the 
hotel  who  knew  more  than  the  mere  alphabet  of 
whist!    "Why  remind  me  of  it,  my  love?  " 

"Because  that's  what  ails  Ida.  She  is  suffering 
from  the  effects  of  Saltburn-by-the-Sea." 

"  My  dear  Margaret,  I  simply  don't  believe  it!  " 

"  But  I  know  it,  Wolff.  Do  listen  to  reason.  Dear 
Ida  has  told  me  everything,  and  I  am  sorry  to  say 
she  is  very  sadly  in  love." 

"  In  love  with  whom?  "  cried  the  novelist,  who  had 
been  pacing  up  and  down  the  room,  after  the  manner 
of  his  kind,  but  who  stopped  now  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  to  spread  his  hands  out  eloquently.  "  With  that 
young  Overton?  " 

"With  that  young  Overman.  You  were  so  short 
and  sharp  with  him,  you  see,  that  you  never  even 
mastered  his  name." 

"  I  was  naturally  short  and  sharp  with  a  young 
fellow  whom  she  had  only  seen  two  or  three  times  in 
her  life — once  on  the  pier,  once  in  the  gardens,  once 
or  twice  about  the  hotel.  It  was  a  piece  of  confounded 
presumption!  We  didn't  even  know  who  or  what  the 
fellow  was! " 


48  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

"  He  put  you  in  the  way  of  finding  out,  and  you 
said  you  didn't  want  to  know." 

"  No  more  I  did,"  said  Wolff  Mason. 

"  You  liked  him  well  enough  before  he  proposed 
to  Ida." 

"  That  may  be.  He  had  more  idea  of  whist  than 
any  of  the  others,  which  is  saying  precious  little. 
But  his  proposal  was  a  piece  of  infernal  impertinence, 
and  I  told  him  so." 

"I  am  sorry  you  told  him  so,  Wolff,"  said  Mrs. 
Mason  softly.  "  However,  the  affair  is  quite  a  thing 
of  the  past.  You  put  a  stop  to  it  pretty  effectually, 
and  I  daresay  it  was  for  the  best.  Only  it  is  right 
you  should  know  that  young  Overman  and  Ida  met 
in  Oxford  Street  yesterday,  and  that  she  has  not  slept 
all  night  for  thinking  about  him." 

"  The  villain!  "  cried  Wolff  Mason,  excitedly.  "  I 
suppose  he  asked  her  to  run  away  with  him?  " 

"  They  did  not  speak.  I  was  with  Ida,"  said  his 
wife.  "  It  was  the  purest  accident.  Ida  bowed — in- 
deed, so  did  I — and  he  took  off  his  hat,  but  no  one 
stopped  or  spoke.  Ida  is  troubled  because  he  looked 
extremely  wretched;  even  I  can  see  his  eyes  now  as 
they  looked  when  we  passed  him.  However,  as  I  say, 
you  put  a  stop  to  the  matter,  and  they  must  both 
get  over  it  as  best  they  can.  I  have  never  blamed 
you,  I  think.  It  was  very  premature,  I  grant  you. 
My  only  feeling  has  been  that,  as  a  writer  of  romance 
all  your  days,  you  showed  remarkably  little  sym- 


A   LITEKAEY    COINCIDENCE  49 

pathy  with  a  pair  of  sufficiently  romantic  young 
lovers! " 

"  My  dear,  I  choose  to  keep  romance  in  its  proper 
place — between  the  covers  of  my  books.  I  have  more 
than  enough  of  it  there,  I  can  assure  you,  if  I  could 
afford  to  consult  my  own  taste." 

"  You  can't  put  in  too  much  of  it  to  suit  mine. 
Your  love-story  has  been  the  strong  point  in  all  your 
novels,  Wolff,  and  it  is  still.  This  new  one  is  of  your 
very  best  in  that  respect.  I  foresee  a  sweet  scene  in 
the  boat-house." 

"  I  am  in  the  middle  of  it  now,"  the  novelist  said, 
complacently. 

"  I  have  visions  of  the  old  general  turning  up 
when  she  is  in  his  arms.  I  do  hope  you  won't  let  him, 
Wolff." 

"How  well  you  know  my  work,  my  love!  The 
general  came  in  and  caught  them  just  before  I  wiped 
my  pen  yesterday.  It  ended  the  chapter  very  nicely. 
I  was  in  good  form  at  lunch." 

"  And  what  is  going  to  happen  to-day?  " 

"Can  you  ask?  The  general  blusters.  George 
behaves  like  a  gentleman,  and  scores  all  down  the 
line,  for  the  time  being." 

"  But  surely  she  is  allowed  to  marry  him  in  the 
end?  " 

"  She  always  is,  my  dear,  in  my  books." 

Mrs.  Mason  cast  upon  her  husband  a  fixed  look 
which  turned  slowly  into  a  sweet,  grave  smile.  He 
4 


50  SOME   TEESONS    UNKNOWN 

was  still  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  but  now 
he  was  leaning  on  the  brass  rail,  with  his  hands 
folded  quietly,  and  a  good-humoured  twinkle  in  his 
eyes. 

"Whatever  he  might  say  about  his  own  books  at 
the  club,  he  enjoyed  chatting  them  over  with  his  wife 
as  keenly  as  in  the  dear  early  days  when  his  first 
book  and  their  eldest  daughter  appeared  simultane- 
ously. He  had  forgotten  Ida  for  the  moment,  and  the 
pleasant  though  impossible  young  man  at  the  sea- 
side; but  Mrs.  Mason  did  not  mean  that  moment  to 
be  prolonged. 

"  Ah,"  said  she,  "in  your  books!  Twice  you  have 
allowed  the  heroine  to  marry  the  hero  in  your  life 
too." 

"I  was  under  the  impression,  my  dear,  that  we 
were  talking  about  my  books." 

"  But  I  am  thinking  about  Ida.  You  needn't  look 
at  the  clock,  Wolff.  You  know  very  well  that  you 
never  leave  the  house  before  ten  minutes  past,  and  it 
isn't  five  past  yet.  You  may  look  at  your  watch  if 
you  like,  but  you  will  see  that  my  clock  is,  if  any- 
thing, fast.  I  say  that  you  raised  no  opposition  in 
the  case  of  either  Laura  or  Hetty." 

"Didn't  I?"  exclaimed  the  novelist  with  a  grim 
chuckle.  "  By  Jove,  I  did  my  worst!  If  that  wasn't 
very  bad  you  must  remember  that  we  knew  all  about 
Charles  and  Macfarlane.  It  wasn't  like  young  Over- 
ton.   By  Jove,  no!" 


A    LITERARY   COINCIDENCE  51 

"  Young  Overman's  is  better  romance,"  murmured 
Mrs.  Mason. 

"  Therefore,  it  is  worse  real  life.  I  do  wish  you 
would  see  with  me  that  the  two  things  clash  if  you 
try  to  bring  them  together.  Frankly,  my  dear,  I  wish 
you  wouldn't  try.  I  make  a  point  of  never  doing  so — 
that's  why  I  don't  live  over  the  shop." 

"  Wolff,  Wolff,  say  that  sort  of  thing  at  your  club! 
With  me  you  can  afford  to  be  sincere.  Why,  you 
have  put  Ida's  hair  and  eyes  into  every  book  you 
have  written  since  she  grew  up.  The  things  don't 
clash.  If  you  borrow  from  Ida  for  your  books,  I  think 
you  ought  to  be  prepared  to  pay  her  back  out  of  your 
books  too,  and  allow  her  to  live  happily  ever  after, 
like  all  the  rest  of  your  heroines." 

There  were  moments  when  Wolff  Mason  realised 
that  the  one-sided  game  of  letters  has  a  bad  effect  on 
the  argumentative  side  of  a  man's  mind.  The  present 
was  one.  He  looked  again  at  his  watch,  and  re- 
placed it  very  hurriedly  in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

"  My  dear,  I  really  must  be  going." 

"  One  minute  more — just  one,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Mason, 
and  her  voice  was  as  soft  as  ever  it  had  been  thirty 
years  ago.    "  I  want  your  hand,  Wolff!  " 

The  novelist  came  round  to  the  bedside  and  sat 
down  for  a  few  moments  on  the  edge.  During  those 
few  moments  two  frail,  worn,  thin  hands  were  joined 
together,  and  Wolff  Mason's  spectacles  showed  him 
a  moisture  in  his  wife's  eyes — not  tears,  but  a  shining 


52  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

film  which  only  made  them  more  lovely  and  sweet 
and  kind.  That  film  had  come  over  them  in  the  old 
days  when  they  were  both  young  and  he  had  told  her 
of  his  love.  On  very  rare  occasions  he  had  described 
it  in  the  eyes  of  his  dark-eyed  heroines,  and  never 
without  a  hotness  in  his  own.  He  rose  suddenly.  His 
hand  was  pressed. 

"  You  will  reconsider  it,  "Wolff?  " 

"  My  dear,  she  is  our  last." 

"  My  love,  we  have  each  other!  " 

Some  moments  later,  when  Wolff  Mason  had  closed 
the  door  behind  him,  he  had  to  open  it  again  to  hear 
what  it  was  that  his  wife  was  calling  after  him. 

"  Mind  you  don't  make  the  general  too  inhuman, 
Wolff,  or  I  shall  be  so  disappointed  in  you  both!  " 

The  novelist  laughed.  So  did  his  wife.  The  secret 
of  their  complete  happiness  was  not  love  alone.  It 
was  love  and  laughter. 

Nevertheless,  Wolff  Mason  drove  to  the  office  of  the 
May  fair  Magazine  in  a  less  literary  frame  of  mind 
than  he  either  liked  or  was  addicted  to  at  this  early 
hour  of  the  day.  It  is  not  true  that  the  novelist  con- 
structed all  his  stories  in  the  hansom  which  deposited 
him  in  Paternoster  Row  at  a  quarter  to  ten  every 
morning,  and  in  front  of  his  own  door  at  a  quarter- 
past  seven  in  the  evening.  That  was  the  invention 
of  the  lady  journalists  who  wrote  paragraphs  about 
Wolff  Mason  for  the  evening  papers — those  para- 
graphs his  old-world  soul  abhorred.     It  is  a  fact. 


A   LITERARY    COINCIDENCE  53 

however,  that  he  liked  to  get  out  of  his  hansom  with 
more  ideas  than  he  had  taken  into  it.  He  made  it  a 
rule  to  think  only  of  his  work  on  the  drive  in. 

But  this  morning  he  was  breaking  all  his  rules: 
he  had  cut  himself  with  his  razor;  he  had  left  the 
house  five  minutes  late,  owing  to  a  series  of  little 
domestic  scenes  of  which  his  head  was  still  full.  And 
how  he  hated  scenes  outside  his  books!  He  treated 
the  psychological  moments  in  his  own  life  as  lightly, 
indeed,  as  in  his  novels,  but  the  former  worried  him. 
This  morning  he  had  kissed  Mrs.  Mason  with  all  the 
exuberance  of  a  young  man,  and  on  coming  down- 
stairs, and  finding  Ida  waiting  for  him  with  his  tall 
hat  and  overcoat  nicely  brushed,  and  his  gloves 
warmed  on  both  sides,  he  had  kissed  her  too,  and  so 
fondly  as  to  bring  out  the  same  film  on  her  sweet  eyes 
as  he  had  produced  a  few  minutes  before  in  those  of 
her  mother. 

To  begin  the  day  by  making  people  cry  was  pe- 
culiarly odious  to  the  kind-hearted  gentleman  who 
held  it  the  whole  duty  of  a  novelist  to  make  people 
laugh;  and  those  two  pairs  of  dear  eyes,  so  like  each 
other  in  every  look,  duly  accompanied  him  to  the 
orderly,  tobacco-scented  room,  where  he  edited  May- 
fair  and  wrote  his  own  books.  The  clock  on  the 
chimney-piece  stood  at  ten  minutes  to  ten.  He  was 
five  minutes  late  at  this  end  also. 

On  a  little  table  under  the  window  lay  the  long  en- 
velopes and  the  cylinders  of  manuscript  which  had 


54  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

arrived  since  the  day  before.  Wolif  Mason  lit  a  ciga- 
rette, and  examined  the  packets  without  opening  them. 
Thus  he  invariably  began  his  official  day,  tossing  aside 
the  less  interesting-looking  missives  for  his  weekly 
"  clean  sweep,"  and  leaving  on  the  little  table  work 
enough  for  the  afternoon,  mostly  the  work  of  previ- 
ously accepted  contributors,  whose  handwriting  was 
familiar  to  the  editor.  These  were  the  people  who 
gave  the  trouble,  the  people  who  had  sent  in  a  good 
thing  once.    Not  all  of  them  did  it  twice. 

The  editor  recognised  this  morning  on  one  of  the 
long  envelopes  the  superscription  of  a  most  promising 
contributor  who  had  done  it  thrice,  but  who  had 
lately  failed  as  many  times  in  succession.  Wolff 
Mason  had  never  known  a  valued  contributor  go  to 
the  bad  at  such  a  pace;  but  this  one  had  done  such 
merry  work  in  the  beginning  that  there  was  hope  for 
him  still.  At  all  events  he  could  write,  and  must 
therefore  be  read  carefully.  The  editor  would  have 
read  him  there  and  then,  in  the  hope  of  a  laugh, 
which  he  felt  he  needed,  had  he  not  been  five  minutes 
late  as  it  was.  At  three  minutes  to  ten  he  loaded  four 
brier-wood  pipes  out  of  a  stone  tobacco-jar,  set  three 
of  them  in  a  row  on  his  desk,  and  lit  the  fourth.  When 
the  hour  struck  the  ink  stood  thick  on  certain  symbols 
at  the  top  of  a  clean  sheet  of  unlined  foolscap,  and 
Wolff  Mason  was  glancing  over  his  previous  morning's 
work. 

The  clock  on  the  chimney-piece  had  a  quiet,  inof- 


A    LITERARY    COINCIDENCE  55 

fensive  tick,  but  this,  and  an  occasional  squeal  from 
the  novelist's  pipe,  which  was  exceedingly  foul,  were 
the  only  sounds  within  the  editorial  sanctum  between 
ten  and  half-past  that  morning.  The  ink  had  dried 
upon  the  pen  of  as  ready  a  writer  as  ever  told  agree- 
able stories  in  good  English;  at  the  half-hour  all  that 
had  been  written  was  the  heading  of  the  new  chapter, 
and  the  number  of  the  page  (with  a  ring  round  it)  in 
the  right-hand  top  corner.  Some  ten  minutes  later 
Wolff  Mason  took  up  his  second  pipe,  lit  it,  and  began 
to  write.  He  wrote  for  an  hour,  more  rapidly  and  less 
gracefully  than  was  his  wont.  Then  he  flung  down 
his  pen,  lit  the  third  pipe,  and  blew  clouds  of  smoke 
against  the  square  of  blue  framed  by  the  upper  sashes 
of  the  double  window  on  his  right.  The  novelist  was 
in  trouble.  The  best  character  in  his  book,  the  old 
general,  was  failing  him  sadly  in  the  hour  of  need. 
It  was  necessary  to  the  plot  that  this  hearty,  weather- 
beaten  warrior  should  make  a  complete  brute  of  him- 
self in  the  boathouse  on  discovering  his  only  daughter 
in  the  embrace  of  the  young  poet  who  inhabited  cheap 
chambers  in  Mitre  Court  when  he  was  at  home.  But 
the  general  had  treated  the  poet  as  his  own  son  hither- 
to, had  taken  his  daughter  to  tea  at  the  Mitre  Court 
chambers,  had  himself  invited  their  interesting  ten- 
ant down  to  his  country  house  for  change  of  air;  and 
he  refused  to  be  so  inconsistent.  It  was  a  case  of  in- 
venting something  disreputable  (afterwards  to  be  dis- 
proved) against  the  poet;  the  general  must  only  now 


56  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

have  heard  of  it  to  justify  his  ordering  his  guest  off 
the  premises  as  the  plot  demanded.  It  was  necessary 
and  easy,  but  undeniably  conventional,  and  it  dis- 
tressed the  novelist,  because  he  had  not  foreseen  this 
contingency  in  the  garden  before  breakfast.  More- 
over, for  some  reason  or  other,  he  felt  his  inventive 
faculty  to  be  at  its  lowest  vitality  to-day.  He  did  not 
ask  himself  what  the  reason  was.  He  had  at  least  got 
back  to  the  world  of  fiction,  and  whatever  their  effects, 
the  domestic  scenes  of  the  early  morning  were  entirely 
forgotten. 

He  was  aware,  however,  that  this  morning  he  was 
breaking  all  his  rules.  He  was  about  to  invent  in  the 
room  where  it  was  his  practice  only  to  write  down 
what  he  had  invented  elsewhere.  He  got  up  and 
paced  the  room  in  order  to  do  so,  and  this  was  an- 
other rule  broken,  for  he  very  seldom  stirred  from  his 
chair  between  ten  o'clock  and  one.  And  now,  as  he 
walked,  Wolff  Mason's  eye  was  caught  by  the  packet 
from  that  promising  contributor  who  could  write  so 
amusingly  when  he  liked;  the  creative  portion  of  his 
brain  gave  sudden  way  to  the  editorial;  and  the  editor 
informed  himself,  with  a  characteristic  chuckle  of  self- 
depreciation,  that  the  new  man's  story  would  in  any 
case  amuse  him  more  than  his  own  was  doing  at  the 
moment.  At  all  events  he  would  try  it.  He  had 
broken  so  many  rules  already  that  he  caught  up  the 
interesting  envelope  with  a  certain  recklessness,  and 
having  lighted  his  fourth  pipe,  sat  down  to  read  man- 


A    LITERARY    COINCIDENCE  57 

uscript  as  calmly  as  though  it  were  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  instead  of  the  middle  of  his  sacred 
working  morning. 

The  story,  which  was  quite  short,  was  accompanied 
by  the  unpresuming  business-like  note  which  this 
contributor  always  forwarded  with  his  literary  offer- 
ings. It  was  called  "  A  Good  Father,"  which  was  not 
a  very  good  title,  but  the  editor  prepared  to  give  it 
his  "  careful  consideration,"  in  accordance  with  the 
pledge  embodied  in  his  printed  notice  to  contributors. 
He  pushed  his  spectacles  on  to  his  forehead  and  began 
to  read  with  the  manuscript  held  close  to  his  nose. 
Over  the  third  leaf  his  fine,  thoughtful  forehead  be- 
came scored  with  furrows;  on  the  fifth  he  exclaimed 
"  Ha! "  Half  way  through  the  story  he  muttered 
"Upon  my  word!"  and  a  little  later,  "A  most  re- 
markable coincidence."  Then  his  face  lost  its  inter- 
ested look  under  the  gathering  clouds  of  disappoint- 
ment, and  he  finished  reading  with  a  brow  awry. 

"  Not  free  from  merit — anything  but  free — yet  it 
won't  do!  This  is  a  young  man  with  a  naturally  sweet 
sense  of  humour,  but  something  has  embittered  him 
since  he  first  began  to  send  me  his  stories.  I  wish  I 
knew  what!  He  is  the  most  disappointing  person  I 
have  had  to  deal  with  for  many  a  day;  a  writer  after 
my  own  heart,  which  he  is  half  breaking  with  his 
accursed  childish  cynicism! " 

The  genuine  character  of  the  editor's  regrets  was 
obvious  (to  himself)  from  the  fact  that  all  his  obser- 


58  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

rations  were  made  aloud.  He  very  seldom  caught 
himself  in  the  act  of  soliloquy;  it  was  yet  another 
of  the  several  irregularities  which  were  destined  to 
stamp  this  day  in  the  memory  of  one  who  notoriously 
lived  and  worked  by  routine.  The  matter  of  the  un- 
acceptable story,  however,  suggested  an  entry  in  the 
commonplace  book  in  which  he  was  accustomed  to 
accumulate  raw  material  for  future  use.  He  felt  hap- 
pier when  he  had  jotted  down  a  note  or  two  anent  the 
cynicism  of  the  modern  young  author  and  his  lament- 
able liking  for  unhappy  endings.  The  story  he  had 
just  read  ended  shockingly,  and  all  owing  to  the  un- 
natural obduracy  of  an  impossible  parent,  the  "  Good 
Father  "  of  the  cynical  title.  Otherwise  it  was  a  very 
good  story  indeed.  The  coincidence,  however,  was 
quite  remarkable.  Paternal  opposition  was  the  rock 
on  which  Wolff  Mason's  own  pen  had  split  that  morn- 
ing. But  his  old  general  was  not  going  to  run  him 
into  an  unhappy  ending — not  he!  He  turned  to  that 
irate  personage  with  positive  relief,  and  saw  his  way 
more  clearly  after  the  ten  minutes  he  had  spent  in 
the  company  of  a  much  more  terrible  specimen  of 
the  same  class.  What  he  did  not  see  was  the  full 
force  of  the  coincidence  which  had  caused  him  to 
exclaim  aloud.  It  was  a  double  one;  but  the  man 
of  letters  lived  a  double  life,  and  in  the  atmosphere 
of  fiction  had  forgotten  those  unpleasant  facts  which 
had  compelled  his  attention  earlier  in  the  day. 

Another  matter  worried  the  writer  when  the  clock 


A   LITERARY   COINCIDENCE  59 

struck  one,  and  he  found  himself  mechanically  wiping 
the  pen  that  had  inscribed  some  twelve  hundred  and 
fifty  words  only  instead  of  the  regulation  fifteen  hun- 
dred. He  felt  humbled  by  a  sense  of  failure  most 
mortifying  at  his  age,  and  though  he  put  away  his 
papers  and  went  off  to  the  club  as  usual,  he  was  not  in 
his  customary  spirits,  and  the  younger  novelists  who 
listened  for  his  good  things,  in  order  to  repeat  them 
to  their  friends,  heard  nothing  worth  taking  home 
with  them  that  day.  One  of  the  latter,  indeed, 
broached  very  deftly  the  subject  of  Wolff  Mason's 
books;  but  the  veteran  treated  the  subject  with  un- 
natural seriousness,  was  aware  of  the  unnaturalness 
himself,  and  left  the  club  before  his  time  in  an  evil 
humour.  And  evil  humours  were  the  greatest  rarity 
of  all  with  the  editor  of  the  Mayfair,  whom  common 
consent  credited  with  the  most  charming  personality 
in  literary  London. 

By  two-thirty  he  was  back  in  the  editorial  chair; 
the  first  of  a  newly-loaded  set  of  pipes  was  in  full 
blast  under  his  nose,  and  the  remaining  contents  of 
the  little  table  under  the  window  were  being  dealt 
with  carefully  and  in  turn.  Not  one  of  them  proved 
to  be  of  any  use  at  all.  In  each  case  this  kind-hearted 
man  felt  it  his  duty  to  pen  a  considerate  little  letter 
explaining  the  reason  of  rejection  in  the  present  in- 
stance, and  encouraging  the  unsuccessful  contributor 
to  further  effort.  It  is  amazing,  indeed,  and  little 
known,  what  a  talent  Wolff  Mason  had  for  the  com- 


60  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

position  of  kindly  little  notes  of  this  nature;  he  made 
even  the  rejected  love  him,  for  his  heartening  words, 
and  for  the  sympathy  and.  humour  with  which  he 
tempered  disappointment  to  his  tender  young  con- 
tributors. 

Last  of  all  this  afternoon  he  returned  to  "  A  Good 
Father,"  and  glanced  over  it  again  with  a  sigh.  Then 
he  took  a  sheet  of  May  fair  Magazine  note-paper,  and. 
scrawled  the  date  and  "  Dear  Sir."  There  he  stopped. 
After  a  few  moments'  hesitation,  the  spoilt  sheet  was 
dropped  into  the  waste-paper  basket,  and  a  new  note 
begun  with  "  My  "  thrown  in  before  the  "  Dear  Sir." 
But  the  editor  paused  again. 

"  Confound  the  fellow,"  he  cried  at  last,  "  I'll  treat 
him  as  a  friend!  The  chances  are  he'll  turn  and  rend 
me;  but  here  goes." 

The  note  that  was  eventually  written  and  posted 
ran  as  follows: — 

"Dear  Mr.  Evan  Evans, — I  think  that  'A  Good  Father'  is 
excellent,  but  on  the  whole  it  does  not  strike  me  as  being  in 
your  best  style — which  is  capital.  If  I  may  be  permitted  to 
make  an  unofficial  observation,  you  will,  I  think,  pardon  the 
expression  of  an  old  man's  regret  that  a  writer  with  a  real 
sense  of  humour,  like  yourself,  should  subordinate  it  to  what 
strikes  one  as  an  alien  melancholy.  If  you  would  only  write 
as  cheerfully  as  you  did  some  time  back,  I  should  be  spared 
the  disappointment  of  returning  your  MS.,  which  I  shall  never 
do  without  peculiar  and  personal  regrets. 

"Yours  very  truly, 

"Wolff  Mason." 


A   LITEKAEY    COINCIDENCE  61 

The  good  editor  breathed  more  freely  when  he 
had  got  this  letter  off  his  mind,  and  had  addressed 
it  to  Evan  Evans,  Esq.,  17,  Cardigan  Mansions,  Ken- 
sington, W.,  and  closed  the  envelope  with  his  own 
hand  and  tongue.  It  was  his  last  act  at  the  office 
that  day.  As  he  tossed  the  letter  into  one  basket,  and 
the  rejected  manuscript  into  another,  the  clock  on  the 
chimney-piece  struck  the  half-hour  after  four.  And 
at  half-past  four  in  the  afternoon,  summer  and  win- 
ter, seed-time  and  harvest,  with  the  annual  exception 
of  a  hateful  holiday  at  some  such  place  as  Saltburn, 
the  editor  of  the  May  fair  Magazine  returned  to  his 
club  to  play  whist  for  an  hour  and  a  half  precisely, 
with  three  kindred  spirits  as  methodical  and  as  en- 
thusiastic as  himself. 

But  this  was  the  exceptional  day  which  proved 
every  rule  of  Wolff  Mason's  most  ruly  life  by  causing 
him  to  break  each  of  them  in  turn.  He  played  his 
cards  towards  evening  as  amateurishly  as  he  had 
chosen  his  phrases  in  the  forenoon.  Now  what  is 
about  to  be  written  down  may  never  be  believed.  But 
at  five-thirty-three,  by  the  card-room  clock,  Wolff 
Mason,  who  was  more  eminent  among  the  few  as  a 
whist-player  than  as  a  writer  of  novels,  put  the  last 
trump  on  his  partner's  thirteenth  card.  One  has  it 
on  unimpeachable  authority.  A  few  minutes  later 
the  rubber  came  to  an  end,  and,  instead  of  playing 
out  time,  as  the  custom  was  with  this  sporting  quar- 
tette, the  novelist  complained  of  a  slight  faintness 


62  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

(which  explained  everything)  and  left  the  club  twenty 
minutes  before  six  for  the  first  time  for  many  years. 

One  of  the  other  three  saw  him  into  his  hansom. 
He  said  that  the  air  entirely  revived  him.  It  might 
have  done  so,  if  there  had  ever  been  anything  the 
matter  with  him.  He  ailed  nothing,  however,  beyond 
extreme  and  cumulative  mortification;  and  the  four 
winds  of  heaven,  chasing  each  other  round  his  tem- 
ples as  he  drove  westward,  could  not  have  blown  that 
cobweb  out  of  his  respected  head. 

He  could  no  longer  feel  surprised  at  anything  that 
he  might  do,  or  say,  or  think.  Somewhere  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  park  he  managed  to  think  upon 
Evan  Evans's  latest  story,  now  on  its  way  back  to  that 
uneven  contributor,  and  it  seemed  only  natural  that 
the  shrewdest,  most  experienced  magazine-editor  in 
London  should  question  the  wisdom  of  his  late  deci- 
sion in  a  way  that  would  have  made  him  laugh  on  any 
other  occasion.  He  did  not  laugh  now.  The  optimist 
of  letters  was  in  an  incredibly  pessimistic  mood,  in 
which  the  story  he  had  refused  seemed  to  him  an 
ideal  one  for  the  magazine.  He  thought  of  his  valued 
and  most  promising  contributor,  Evan  Evans,  of  the 
manuscript  now  on  its  way  back  to  him,  of  the  possible 
effect  of  the  rejection  of  so  good  a  story  upon  a  sensi- 
tive young  man  with  a  knowledge  of  other  markets. 
Then  he  thought  of  this  contributor's  address,  which 
was  quite  close  to  his  own,  and  of  the  twenty  minutes 
which  he  had  in  hand  owing  to  his  premature  depart- 


A    LITERARY   COINCIDENCE  63 

ure  from  the  club.  A  word  on  the  spur  to  the  cab- 
man, a  sharp  turn  to  the  left,  some  easy  driving  along 
a  quiet  street,  and  the  hansom  pulled  up  before  the 
respectable  portals  of  Cardigan  Mansions,  Nos.  11-22, 
whereof  the  stout  attendant  in  uniform  came  forward 
and  threw  back  the  panels. 

In  another  minute  Wolff  Mason  was  pressing  the 
electric  bell  outside  No.  17  on  the  second  floor,  and 
reflecting,  with  a  qualm,  that  he  was  about  to  intrude 
upon  a  rejected  contributor  whom  he  had  never  seen 
— a  truly  startling  reversal  of  a  far  too  common 
editorial  experience  of  his  own.  An  elderly  servant 
opened  the  door. 

"  Is  Mr.  Evans  at  home?  " 

"Mr.  Hevans,  sir?" 

The  servant  looked  as  vacant  as  a  woman  need. 

"  Mr.  Evan  Evans,"  said  the  editor,  distinctly,  and 
with  a  smile  as  it  struck  him  that  there  was  no  oc- 
casion in  the  world  for  him  to  leave  his  name.  But 
a  light  had  broken  over  the  crass  face  of  the  elderly 
door-opener. 

"  Oh,  I  know,  sir!  He  is  in.  Will  you  step  this 
way?  " 

There  was  no  drawing  back  now.  Mr.  Mason 
stepped  boldly  across  the  threshold,  and  the  door 
closed  behind  him.  In  the  very  narrow  passage  the 
servant  squeezed  by  him,  and  paused  with  her  fin- 
gers on  the  handle  of  a  door  upon  the  right-hand 
side. 


64  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

"  "What  name  shall  I  say,  sir?  " 

"  Mr.  Wolff  Mason." 

A  moment  later  the  novelist-editor  found  himself 
standing  in  a  more  charming  study  than  he  himself 
owned  to  that  day.  It  was  all  hooks  and  pictures,  and 
weapons  and  pretty  curtains,  and  comfortable  chairs 
and  handy  tables.  A  good  fire  was  burning,  and  on 
the  right  of  it  was  a  desk  so  placed  that  the  writer 
looked  out  into  the  room  as  he  sat  at  his  work.  The 
writer  was  sitting  there  now.  He  was  a  very  young 
man,  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  a  pen  in  his  hand, 
and  as  he  leant  forward  with  the  utmost  eagerness, 
and  the  light  of  his  writing-lamp  fell  full  upon  his 
youthful  face,  Wolff  Mason  had  not  the  slightest  dif- 
ficulty in  recognising  Ida's  presumptuous  suitor  of 
Saltburn-by-the-Sea. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Mason?"  the  young  fellow 
said,  coming  forward  with  his  hand  frankly  out- 
stretched; but  the  other  hesitated  before  taking  it  in 
his. 

"  Am  I  speaking  to  Mr.  Evan  Evans?  " 

"  That  is  the  name  I — write  stories  under." 

"Exactly.  Your  other  name  is  not  my  concern. 
I  don't  seek  to  know  it,  Mr.  Evans." 

The  editor  was  smiling  grimly,  but  his  gloved  hand 
was  now  extended.  Now,  however,  that  of  the  young 
man  went  coolly  into  his  trousers'  pocket  as  he  looked 
his  visitor  steadily  in  the  face.  They  were  grey  flannel 
trousers,  with  yellow  slippers  at  one  end  of  them  and 


A   LITEKARY    COINCIDENCE  65 

a  Norfolk  jacket  at  the  other.  The  editor's  6mile  had 
turned  to  a  look  of  interest. 

"  I  called  to  see  you  about  a  little  story,  Mr. 
Evans." 

"  You  have  done  me  a  very  great  honour,  sir. 
Won't  you  sit  down?  Do  you  find  it  warm?  Shall 
I  open  the  window?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  I  won't  detain  you  a  mo- 
ment, and  I  won't  sit  down  in  one  of  your  chairs,  be- 
cause they  look  comfortable,  and  I  am  stiff — though 
you  wouldn't  think  it  from  my  breaking  in  upon  you 
like  this,  would  you?  " 

Having  shown  very  plainly  that  it  was  not  his 
intention  to  recognise  any  former  acquaintance,  and 
seeing  his  young  host  take  the  cue  from  him  in  a 
way  that  struck  him  as  at  once  manly  and  gentlemanly, 
Mr.  Wolff  Mason  was  now  behaving  in  his  own  most 
charming  fashion,  which  was  very  charming  indeed 
to  a  young  unknown  beginner  from  a  favourite  old 
author  whose  name  had  been  a  household  word  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century  at  least.  The  beginner  felt  that 
if  he  had  gauged  the  character  of  Wolff  Mason  cor- 
rectly, when  they  first  met  at  the  sea-side,  he  would 
never  have  concealed  the  identity  of  Jack  Overman 
with  Evan  Evans.  But  all  thought  of  the  old  man's 
hardness  upon  a  young  one  perished  in  an  over- 
whelming sense  of  the  great  editor's  kindness  towards 
his  utterly  unknown  contributor. 

"  I'll  stand  here,  if  I  may,  with  my  back  to  your 
5 


66  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

fire.  I  looked  in  about  the  very  clever  little  story 
you  sent  me  yesterday." 

The  young  author's  face  brightened  till  it  quivered, 
but  his  words  were  all  unworthy. 

"  How  awfully  kind  of  you!  " 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear  sir.  I  was  passing  close  to 
you,  on  my  way  home,  and  I  was  bothering  about 
your  story.  I  admire  your  work,  but  I  don't  alto- 
gether admire  this  story.  My  dear  fellow,  it  ends 
too  sadly  altogether! " 

"  No  other  ending  was  possible,"  the  young  man 
declared.  "  So  I  felt,  and  one  must  write  as  one 
feels." 

"  Must  one  ?  "  said  the  veteran,  smiling  blandly  into 
the  boyish  earnest  face.  "  Surely  all  things  are  possi- 
ble to  him  who  writes — unless,  to  be  sure,  he  takes 
himself  seriously! " 

This,  however,  was  not  very  seriously  said,  for 
Wolff  Mason  had  turned  round  and  was  peering  at  the 
photographs  on  and  over  the  mantel-piece.  Suddenly 
he  pushed  up  his  spectacles  and  thrust  his  head  close 
to  a  framed  portrait,  with  a  piece  of  stamp-paper 
stuck  upon  the  glass  to  hide  the  face,  but  with  the 
name  in  print  underneath  upon  the  mount. 

"  May  I  ask,  young  man,"  inquired  Mr.  Mason,  as 
he  favoured  his  contributor  with  a  very  comical  stare, 
"  why  you  have  my  photograph  on  the  wall,  in  the 
first  place;  and,  in  the  second,  why  the  deuce  you 
cover  up  my  face?  " 


A   LITERARY   COINCIDENCE  67 

"  You  must  ask  the  man  who  lives  with  me.  He 
may  come  in  any  moment  now." 

"  Did  he  do  it?  " 

"  I'm  ashamed  to  say  he  did." 

"  Upon  my  word  I  should  like  to  know  why! " 

"Well,  sir,  he  bought  me  your  photograph  when 
you  were  accepting  my  stories;  and  he  hid  your  face 
because  he  said " 

"Well,  what  did  he  say?" 

"  He  talked  such  rot,  sir! " 

"  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  He  was  ass  enough  to  say  you'd  certainly  live  to 
hide  it  yourself  on  my  account!  I'm  afraid  that  he 
unduly  admires  my  stuff.  He's  a  fellow  who  is  full  of 
sympathy " 

"  And  not  free  from  humour — by  no  means  free!  " 
cried  Mr.  Mason,  laughing  at  the  top  of  his  voice  (as 
he  had  never,  never  laughed  at  Saltburn-by-the-Sea). 
"  But  seriously,  you  are  ending  your  later  stories  far 
too  sadly.  To  come  back  to  your  last  one — though 
I'm  afraid  it's  coming  back  to  you!  I  rejected  it,  and 
then,  as  I  was  driving  home,  I  thought  you  would  per- 
haps alter  it,  if  I  called  and  asked  you  before  you  sent 
it  elsewhere.  Don't  you  think  you  could  soften  your 
good  father — just  at  the  end?  " 

"  I  couldn't,"  said  the  young  fellow,  with  a  candid 
stare;  but  his  eyes  fell  under  the  cool,  kindly  scrutiny 
of  the  elderly  man,  who  continued  gazing  at  the  well- 
shaped  head,  on  which  the  hair  was  perhaps  a  trifle 


68  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

long  and  untidy.  For  once  that  day  Wolff  Mason  was 
the  equal  of  the  occasion,  and  he  knew  it  to  his  con- 
solation. The  occasion,  moreover,  was  the  very  one  to 
which  he  would  have  desired  to  rise. 

"  Why  couldn't  you,  my  dear  fellow?  " 

"  Because  it  isn't  life." 

"  Are  you  so  sure  that  you  know  life?  " 

"I  know  it  as  I  find  it,"  said  the  young  fellow 
bitterly;  and  there  was  a  pause. 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  you  know  that  I  like  your 
stories." 

"  I  am  thankful  to  hear  it." 

"  I  want  to  accept  them " 

"  You  are  very  kind." 

"  As  many  of  them  as  ever  you  can  write,  and  some 
day  a  long  novel.    I  believe  in  you,  Overton." 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  are  more  than  kind — to  a  raw  re- 
cruit— on  the  ladder  which  you  yourself " 

"  My  good  Overton,  why  on  earth  didn't  you  mix 
those  metaphors  three  months  ago?  Not  that  you're 
raw  at  all — unless  it's  with  me!  " 

Two  frail  hands  were  laid  on  the  young  man's 
shoulders.    He  answered  dryly: 

"  My  other  name  isn't  Overton.  It's  Overman. 
But  I  forgot,  you  said  it  wasn't  your  concern!  " 

"  Ah,  well,  but  the  man  who  is  to  make  the  name 
famous  is  becoming  my  very  grave  concern.  You 
should  have  let  me  know  that  you  were  in  our  swim, 
my  boy." 


A   LITERAKY    COINCIDENCE  69 

"Before  I  was  sure  of  keeping  myself  afloat?  I 
thought  1  had  a  better  chance  as  a — bad  whist- 
player!  " 

"  Confound  the  boy!  "  cried  Wolff  Mason,  "  but  you 
were  perfectly  right,  though  your  work  is  better  than 
your  whist." 

"  Then  it  was  your  magazine  that  I  was  writing 
for — you  were  the  one  man  in  England  who  could 
help  me  on — the  whole  situation  was  so  liable  to  mis- 
construction! " 

"It  was — it  was.  And,  now  I  think  of  it, 
you  never  brought  me  an  introduction  nor  asked 
for  an  interview,  nor  wrote  me  a  single  superfluous 
line!" 

"  I  wanted  you  to  accept  my  stuff,"  said  the  young 
fellow,  smiling. 

But  behind  his  spectacles  the  editor's  eyes  sparkled 
for  an  instant  with  something  more  than  human  kind- 
ness. He  had  made  the  grand  discovery  of  his  edito- 
rial life.  He  had  discovered  the  ideal  contributor, 
and  for  the  moment  he  could  only  think  of  him  as  a 
young  man  of  letters.  Now,  however,  his  right  hand 
had  found  its  way  into  that  of  young  Overman,  as  he 
said  with  a  comic  solemnity: 

"  Look  here,  Overton,  I  was  five  minutes  late  in 
leaving  the  house  this  morning;  for  once  in  a  way  I 
don't  mind  if  I'm  five  minutes  late  in  getting  back. 
I  think  that  all  you  need  do  is  to  shave,  though  Ida 


70  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

might  prefer  you  in  another  pair  of  bags  and  slippers. 
You  can't  improve  upon  that  Norfolk  jacket — but — 
but  you  and  I  must  have  another  talk  about  the  end 
of  your  story." 


«  AUTHOR !  AUTHOR !  " 

This  story  has  to  do  with  two  men  and  a  play,  in- 
stead of  a  woman,  and  it  is  none  of  mine.  I  had  it 
from  an  old  gentleman  I  love:  only  he  ought  to  have 
written  it  himself.  This,  however,  he  will  never  do, 
having  known  intimately  in  his  young  days  one  of  the 
two  men  concerned.  But  I  have  his  leave  to  repeat 
the  story  more  or  less  as  he  told  it — if  I  can.  And  I 
am  going  to  him  for  my  rebuke — when  I  dare. 

"  You  want  to  hear  the  story  of  poor  old  Pharazyn 
and  his  play?    I'm  not  going  to  tell  it  you.    .    .    . 

"Ah,  well!  My  recollection  of  the  matter  dates 
from  one  summer's  night  at  my  old  rooms  in  the  Adel- 
phi,  when  he  spoilt  my  night's  work  by  coming  in 
flushed  with  an  idea  of  his  own.  I  remember  banging 
the  drawer  into  which  I  threw  my  papers  to  lock  them 
away  for  the  night;  but  in  a  few  minutes  I  had  for- 
gotten my  unfinished  article,  and  was  glad  that 
Pharazyn  had  come.  "We  were  young  writers,  both  of 
us;  and,  let  me  tell  you,  my  good  fellow,  young  writ- 
ing wasn't  in  those  days  what  it  is  now.  I  am  think- 
ing less  of  merit  than  of  high  prices,  and  less  of  high 
prices  than  of  cheap  notoriety.    Neither  of  us  had  ever 

71 


72  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

had  our  names  before  the  public — not  even  in  the  bill 
of  an  unread  and  unreadable  magazine.  No  one  cared 
about  names  in  my  day,  save  for  the  half-dozen  great 
ones  that  were  then  among  us;  so  Pharazyn's  and 
mine  never  got  into  the  newspapers,  though  some  of 
them  used  our  stuff. 

"  In  a  manner  we  were  rivals,  for  we  were  writing 
the  same  sort  of  thing  for  the  same  sort  of  publica- 
tions, and  that  was  how  we  had  come  together;  but 
never  was  rivalry  friendlier,  or  mutually  more  helpful. 
Our  parts  were  strangely  complementary:  if  I  could 
understand  for  the  life  of  me  the  secret  of  collabora- 
tion, I  should  say  that  I  might  have  collaborated  with 
Pharazyn  almost  ideally.  I  had  the  better  of  him  in 
point  of  education,  and  would  have  turned  single 
sentences  against  him  for  all  he  was  worth;  and  I 
don't  mind  saying  so,  for  there  my  superiority  ended. 
When  he  had  a  story  to  tell  he  told  it  with  a  swing  and 
impetus  which  I  coveted  him,  as  well  I  might  to  this 
day;  and  if  he  was  oftener  without  anything  to  write 
about,  his  ideas  would  pay  twenty  shillings  in  the 
pound,  in  strength  and  originality,  where  mine  made 
some  contemptible  composition  in  pence.  That  is 
why  I  have  been  a  failure  at  fiction — oh,  yes,  I  have! 
That  is  why  Pharazyn  would  have  succeeded,  if  only 
he  had  stuck  to  plain  ordinary  narrative  prose. 

"  The  idea  he  was  unable  to  keep  within  his  own 
breast,  on  the  evening  of  which  I  am  telling  you,  was 
as  new,  and  simple,  and  dramatic  as  any  that  ever 


" AUTHOR !    AUTHOR ! "  73 

intoxicated  the  soul  of  story-teller  or  made  a  brother 
author  green  with  envy.  I  can  see  him  now,  as  I 
watched  him  that  night,  flinging  to  and  fro  with  his 
quick,  nervous  stride,  while  he  sketched  the  new  story 
— bit  by  bit,  and  often  the  wrong  bit  foremost;  but 
all  with  his  own  flashing  vividness,  which  makes  me  so 
sorry — so  sorry  whenever  I  think  of  it.  At  moments 
he  would  stand  still  before  the  chair  on  which  I  sat 
intent,  and  beat  one  hand  upon  the  other,  and  look 
down  at  me  with  a  grand,  wondering  smile,  as  though 
he  himself  could  hardly  believe  what  the  gods  had 
put  into  his  head,  or  that  the  gift  was  real  gold,  it 
glittered  so  at  first  sight.  On  that  point  I  could  reas- 
sure him.  My  open  jealousy  made  me  admire  soberly. 
But  when  he  told  me,  quite  suddenly,  as  though  on  an 
afterthought,  that  he  meant  to  make  a  play  of  it  and 
not  a  story,  I  had  the  solid  satisfaction  at  that  mo- 
ment of  calling  him  a  fool. 

"  The  ordinary  author  of  my  day,  you  see,  had  a 
certain  timorous  respect  for  the  technique  of  the 
stage.  It  never  occurred  to  us  to  make  light  of  those 
literary  conventions  which  it  was  not  our  business  to 
understand.  We  were  behind  you  fellows  in  every 
way.  But  Pharazyn  was  a  sort  of  forerunner:  he  said 
that  any  intelligent  person  could  write  a  play,  if  he 
wanted  to,  and  provided  he  could  write  at  all.  He 
said  his  story  was  a  born  play;  and  it  was,  in  a  way; 
but  I  told  him  I  doubted  whether  he  could  train  it 
up  with  his  own  hand  into  a  good  acting  one.    I  knew 


74  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

I  was  right.  He  had  neither  the  experience  nor  the 
innate  constructive  faculty,  one  or  other  of  which  is 
absolutely  necessary  for  the  writing  of  possible  plays. 
I  implored  him  to  turn  the  thing  into  a  good  dramatic 
novel,  and  so  make  his  mark  at  one  blow.  But  no; 
the  wilful  fit  was  on  him,  and  one  had  to  let  it  run  its 
course.  Already  he  could  see  and  hear  his  audience 
laughing  and  crying,  so  he  said,  and  no  doubt  he  had 
further  visions  of  his  weekly  cheque.  Anyhow,  we  sat 
up  all  night  over  it,  arguing,  smoking,  and  drinking 
whisky  until  my  windows  overlooking  the  river 
caught  the  rising  sun  at  an  angle.  Then  I  gave  in, 
for  poor  old  Pharazyn  was  more  obstinate  than  ever, 
though  he  thanked  me  with  the  greatest  good  temper 
for  my  well-meant  advice. 

" '  And  look  here,  my  boy,'  says  he,  as  he  puts  on 
his  hat,  i  you  shan't  hear  another  word  about  this  till 
the  play's  written;  and  you  are  to  ask  no  questions. 
Is  that  a  bargain?  Very  well,  then.  When  I've  fin- 
ished it — down  to  the  very  last  touches — you  shall 
come  and  sit  up  all  night  with  me,  and  I'll  read  you 
every  word.  And  by  George,  old  chap,  if  they  give  me 
a  call  the  first  night,  and  want  a  speech — and  I  see  you 
sitting  in  your  stall,  like  a  blessed  old  fool  as  you  are 
— by  George,  sir,  I'll  hold  up  you  and  your  judgment 
to  the  ridicule  of  the  house,  so  help  me  Himmel! ' 

"  Well,  I  am  coming  to  that  first  night  presently. 
Meanwhile,  for  the  next  six  months  I  saw  very  little 
of  Pharazyn,  and  less  still  in  the  new  year.    He  sel- 


" AUTHOR !    AUTHOR ! "  75 

dom  came  to  my  rooms  now;  when  he  did  I  could 
never  get  him  to  stay  and  sit  up  with  me;  and  once 
when  I  climbed  up  to  his  garret  (it  was  literally  that) 
he  would  not  answer  me,  though  I  could  smell  his  pipe 
through  the  key-hole  in  which  he'd  turned  the  key. 
Yet  he  was  perfectly  friendly  whenever  we  did  meet. 
He  said  he  was  working  very  hard,  and  indeed  I  could 
imagine  it;  his  personal  appearance,  never  his  strong 
point,  being  even  untidier,  not  to  say  seedier,  than  of 
old.  He  continued  to  send  me  odd  magazines  in 
which  his  stuff  happened  to  appear,  or,  occasionally 
a  proof  for  one's  opinion  and  suggestions;  we  had 
done  this  to  each  other  all  along;  but  either  I  did  not 
think  about  it,  or  somehow  he  led  me  to  suppose  that 
his  things  were  more  or  less  hot  from  the  pen,  whereas 
many  of  mine  had  been  written  a  twelve-month  before 
one  saw  them  in  type.  One  way  or  another  I  gathered 
that  he  was  at  work  in  our  common  groove,  and  had 
shelved,  for  the  present  at  all  events,  his  proposed 
play,  about  which  you  will  remember  I  had  under- 
taken to  ask  no  questions. 

"  I  was  quite  mistaken.  One  night  in  the  follow- 
ing March  he  came  to  me  with  a  haggard  face,  a 
beaming  eye,  and  a  stout,  clean  manuscript,  which  he 
brought  down  with  a  thud  on  my  desk.  It  was  the 
play  he  had  sketched  out  to  me  eight  or  nine  months 
before.  I  was  horrified  to  hear  he  had  been  at  work 
upon  it  alone  from  that  night  to  this.  He  actually 
boasted  that  he  hadn't  written  another  line  in  all  that 


76  SOME  PERSONS  UNKNOWN 

time,  only  each  line  of  his  play  some  ten  times 
over. 

"  I  recollect  looking  curiously  at  his  shabby  clothes, 
and  then  reminding  him  that  it  was  at  his  place,  not 
mine,  I  was  to  have  heard  him  read  the  play:  and  how 
he  confessed  that  he  had  no  chair  for  me  there — that 
his  room  was  practically  dismantled — that  he  had  sac- 
rificed everything  to  the  play  and  would  do  so  again. 
I  was  extremely  angry.  I  could  have  helped  him  so 
easily,  independent  as  I  was  of  the  calling  I  loved  to 
follow.  But  there  was  about  him  always  an  accursed 
unnecessary  independence,  which  has  since  struck 
me — and  I  think  I  may  say  so  after  all  these  years 
— as  the  mark  of  a  rather  humble,  deadly  honest 
origin. 

"  He  read  me  the  play,  and  I  cried  over  the  third 
act,  and  so  did  he.  I  thought  then,  and  still  think, 
that  there  was  genius  in  that  third  act — it  took  you 
off  your  feet.  And  to  me,  certainly,  it  seemed  as  if 
the  piece  must  act  as  well  as  it  read,  though  indeed,  as 
I  took  care  to  say  and  to  repeat,  my  opinion  was  well- 
nigh  valueless  on  that  point.  I  only  knew  that  I 
could  see  the  thing  playing  itself,  as  I  walked  about 
the  room  (for  this  time  I  was  the  person  who  was  too 
excited  to  sit  still),  and  that  was  enough  to  make  one 
sanguine.  I  became  as  enthusiastic  about  it  as  though 
the  work  were  mine  (which  it  never,  never  would  or 
could  have  been),  yet  I  was  unable  to  suggest  a  single 
improvement,  or  to  have  so  much  as  a  finger-tip  in  the 


"AUTHOR !    AUTHOR ! "  77 

pie.  Nor  could  I  afterwards  account  for  its  invariable 
reception  at  the  hands  of  managers,  whose  ways  were 
then  unknown  to  me.  That  night  we  talked  only  of 
one  kind  of  reception.  We  were  still  talking  when 
once  more  the  sun  came  slanting  up  the  river  to  my 
windows;  you  could  hardly  see  them  for  tobacco- 
smoke,  and  this  time  we  had  emptied  a  bottle  to  the 
success  of  Pharazyn's  piece. 

"  Oh,  those  nights — those  nights  once  in  a  way! 
God  forgive  me,  but  I'd  sacrifice  many  things  to  be 
young  again  and  feel  clever,  and  to  know  the  man  who 
would  sit  up  all  night  with  me  to  rule  the  world  over 
a  bottle  of  honest  grog.  In  the  light  of  after  events 
I  ought  perhaps  to  be  ashamed  to  recall  such  a  night 
with  that  particular  companion.  But  it  is  ridiculous, 
in  my  opinion,  to  fit  some  sort  of  consequence  to  every 
little  solitary  act;  and  I  shall  never  admit  that  poor 
Pharazyn's  ultimate  failing  was  in  any  appreciable 
degree  founded  or  promoted  by  those  our  youthful 
full-souled  orgies.  I  know  very  well  that  afterwards, 
when  his  life  was  spent  in  waylaying  those  aforesaid 
managers,  in  cold  passages,  on  stage  doorsteps,  or  in 
desperation  under  the  public  portico  on  the  street; 
and  when  a  hundred  snubs  and  subterfuges  would  cul- 
minate in  the  return  of  his  manuscript,  ragged  but 
unread;  I  know,  and  I  knew  then,  that  the  wreck  who 
would  dodge  me  in  Fleet  Street,  or  cut  me  in  the 
Strand,  had  taken  to  his  glass  more  seriously  and 
more  steadily  than  a  man  should.    But  I  am  not  sure 


78  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

that  it  matters  much — much,  you  understand  me — 
when  that  man's  heart  is  broken. 

"  The  last  words  I  was  ever  to  exchange  with  my 
poor  old  friend  ring  in  my  head  to  this  day,  whenever 
I  think  of  him;  and  I  can  repeat  them  every  one. 
It  was  years  after  our  intimacy  had  ceased,  and  when 
I  only  knew  that  he  had  degenerated  into  a  Fleet 
Street  loafer  of  the  most  dilapidated  type,  that  I 
caught  sight  of  him  one  day  outside  a  theatre.  It  was 
the  theatre  which  was  for  some  years  a  gold-mine  to 
one  Morton  Morrison,  of  whom  you  may  never  have 
heard;  but  he  was  a  public  pet  in  his  day,  and  his  day 
was  just  then  at  its  high  noon.  Well,  there  stood 
Pharazyn,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  a  cutty- 
pipe  sticking  out  between  his  ragged  beard  and  mous- 
tache, and  his  shoulders  against  the  pit  door,  so  that 
for  once  he  could  not  escape  me.  But  he  wouldn't 
take  a  hand  out  of  his  pocket  to  shake  mine;  and 
when  I  asked  him  how  he  was,  without  thinking,  he 
laughed  in  my  face,  and  it  made  me  feel  cruel.  He 
was  dreadfully  emaciated  and  almost  in  rags.  And  as 
I  wondered  what  I  ought  to  do,  and  what  to  say  next, 
he  gave  a  cough,  and  spat  upon  the  pavement,  and  I 
could  see  the  blood. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  would  have  done  for  him, 
but  for  all  I  knew  what  had  brought  him  to  this,  I 
could  think  of  nothing  but  a  drink.  It  was  mid-win- 
ter, and  I  tell  you  the  man  was  in  rags.    I  felt  that  if 


" AUTHOR !    AUTHOR ! "  79 

I  could  get  him  to  a  bar  he  might  eat  something,  too, 
and  that  I  should  lay  such  a  hold  of  him  this  time  as 
I  need  never  again  let  go.  Judge  of  my  surprise 
when  he  flatly  refused  to  come  with  me  even  for  a 
drink. 

"'  Can't  you  see?'  he  said  in  his  hollow  voice. 
*  There'll  he  a  crowd  here  directly,  and  I  want  the  best 
seat  in  the  pit — the  best  in  the  house.  I've  been  going 
dry  for  it  these  two  days,  and  I'm  going  dry  till  I've 
seen  the  piece.  No,  I've  been  here  an  hour  already, 
and  I'm  still  the  first;  but  I  mightn't  be  when  I  came 
back,  and  I'm  not  going  to  risk  it,  thanks  all  the 
same.' 

"  By  this  I  had  remembered  that  Morton  Morrison 
was  to  re-open  that  night  with  a  new  piece.  Indeed, 
I  ought  not  to  have  forgotten  that,  seeing  that  I  had 
my  order  about  me  somewhere,  and  it  meant  a  column 
from  my  pen  between  twelve  and  one  in  the  morning. 
But  this  sudden  sorry  meeting  had  put  all  other 
thoughts  out  of  my  head. 

" '  My  dear  fellow,'  I  said,  with  a  sort  of  laugh, '  are 
you  a  first-nighter,  too? ' 

" '  Only  at  this  theatre.' 

"  He  looked  me  queerly  in  the  face. 

"  '  You  admire  Morrison  as  much  as  all  that?  ? 

" '  I  love  him!  * 

"I  suppose  my  eyes  thawed  him,  though  God 
knows  how  hard  I  was  trying  not  to  hurt  him  with 
pitying  looks.    At  all  events  he  began  to  explain  him- 


80  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

self  of  his  own  accord,  in  one  bitter,  swift,  impetuous 
outburst. 

" '  Look  here,'  he  said,  with  his  hoarse  voice  low- 
ered: '  I  hoped  never  to  see  your  face  again.  I  hoped 
you'd  never  see  mine.  But  now  you  are  here,  don't  go 
this  minute,  and  I'll  tell  you  why  I  think  so  much  of 
Morton  Morrison.  I  don't  know  him,  mind  you — he 
doesn't  know  me  from  Adam — but  once  long  ago  I 
had  something  to  do  with  him.  And  God  bless  him, 
but  damn  every  other  manager  in  London,  for  he  was 
the  only  one  of  the  lot  to  give  me  a  civil  hearing  and  a 
kind  word! ' 

"  I  knew  what  he  was  talking  about,  and  he  knew 
that  I  knew,  for  we  had  understood  one  another  in 
the  old  days. 

" '  I  took  it  to  him  last  of  all,'  he  went  on,  wiping 
his  damp  lips  with  his  hand.  '  When  I  began  hawk- 
ing it  about  he  was  an  unknown  man;  when  his  turn 
came  he  was  here.  He  let  me  read  it  to  him.  Then 
he  asked  me  to  leave  it  with  him  for  a  week;  and  when 
I  went  back  to  him,  he  said  what  they'd  all  said — 
that  it  would  never  act.  But  Morton  Morrison  said  it 
nicely.  And  when  he  saw  how  it  cut  me  up  into  little 
bits,  he  got  me  to  tell  him  all  about  everything;  and 
then  he  persuaded  me  to  burn  the  play,  instead  of 
ruining  my  life  for  it;  and  I  burnt  it  in  his  dressing- 
room  fire,  but  the  ruin  was  too  far  gone  to  mend.  I 
wrote  that  thing  with  my  heart's  blood — old  man, 
you  know  I  did!    And  none  of  them  would  think  of  it 


"  AUTHOR !    AUTHOR !  "  81 

— my  God!  But  Morrison  was  good  about  it — he's  a 
good  soul — and  that's  why  you'll  see  me  at  every  first 
night  of  his  until  the  drink  does  me.' 

"  I  had  not  followed  him  quite  to  the  end.  One 
thing  had  amazed  me  too  much. 

" '  You  burnt  your  play/  I  could  only  murmur, 
'  when  it  would  have  turned  into  such  a  novel!  Surely 
you  have  some  draft  of  it  still?  ' 

"  '  I  burnt  the  lot  when  I  got  home/  says  Pharazyn, 
'  and  before  long  I  shall  join  'em  and  burn  too.' 

"  I  had  nothing  to  answer  to  that,  and  was,  besides, 
tenacious  of  my  point.  '  I  don't  think  much  of  the 
kindness  that  makes  one  man  persuade  another  to 
burn  his  work  and  throw  up  the  sponge/  I  said,  with 
a  good  deal  of  indignation,  for  I  did  feel  wroth 
with  that  fellow  Morrison — a  bread-and-butter  draw- 
ing-room actor  whose  very  vogue  used  to  irritate 
me. 

"  '  Then  what  do  you  think  of  this?  '  asked  Phara- 
zyn, as  he  dipped  a  hand  within  his  shabby  coat,  and 
cautiously  unclenched  it  under  my  nose. 

"  '  It's  a  five-pound  note.' 

"  '  I  know;  but  wasn't  that  kind,  then? ' 

"  i  So  Morrison  gave  you  this! '  I  said. 

"  Two  or  three  persons  had  stopped  to  join  us  at 
the  pit  door,  and  Pharazyn  hastily  put  the  note  back 
in  his  pocket.  As  he  did  so,  his  dreadfully  shabby 
condition  gave  my  heart  a  fresh  cut. 

"  '  Are  you  never  going  to  spend  that?  '  I  asked  in 
6 


82  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

a  whisper;  and  in  a  whisper  he  answered,  'Never. 
It's  all  my  play  has  brought  me — all.  It  was  given  me 
as  a  charity,  hut  I  took  it  as  my  earnings — my  earn- 
ings for  all  the  work  and  waiting,  and  flesh  and  blood 
and  self-respect,  that  one  thing  cost  me.  Spend  it? 
Xot  I.    It  will  bury  me  as  decently  as  I  deserve/ 

"  We  could  converse  no  more.  And  the  presence  of 
other  people  prevented  me  from  giving  him  my  over- 
coat, though  I  spoke  of  it  into  his  ear,  begging  and 
imploring  him  to  come  away  and  take  it  while  there 
was  still  time  for  him  to  slip  back  and  get  a  seat  in 
the  front  row.  But  he  would  not  hear  of  it,  and  the 
way  he  refused  reminded  me  of  his  old  stubborn  in- 
dependence; all  I  got  was  a  promise  that  he  would 
have  a  bite  with  me  after  the  performance.  And  so  I 
left  him  in  the  frosty  dusk,  ill-clad  and  unkempt,  with 
the  new-lit  lamp  over  the  pit  door  shining  down  upon 
the  haggard  mask  that  had  once  been  the  eager,  mem- 
orable face  of  my  cleverest  friend. 

"  I  saw  him  next  the  moment  I  entered  the  theatre 
that  evening,  and  I  nodded  my  head  to  him,  which  he 
rebuked  with  the  slightest  shake  of  his  own.  So  I 
looked  no  more  at  him  before  the  play  began,  com- 
prehending that  he  desired  me  not  to  do  so.  The 
temptation,  however,  was  too  strong  to  go  on  resist- 
ing, for  while  Pharazyn  was  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
front  row  in  the  pit,  I  was  at  one  end  of  the  last  row 
of  the  stalls;  and  I  was  very  anxious  about  him,  want- 
ing to  make  sure  that  he  was  there  and  not  going  to 


"  AUTHOR !    AUTHOR  !  "  83 

escape  me  again,  and  nervous  at  having  him  out  of 
my  sight  for  five  minutes  together. 

"  Thus  I  know  more  about  the  gradual  change 
which  came  over  Pharazyn's  poor  face,  as  scene  fol- 
lowed scene,  than  of  the  developments  and  merits 
of  those  scenes  themselves.  My  mind  was  in  any 
case  running  more  on  my  lost  friend  than  on  the 
piece;  but  it  was  not  till  near  the  end  of  the  first 
act  that  the  growing  oddity  of  his  look  first  struck 
me. 

"  His  eyebrows  were  raised;  it  was  a  look  of  incre- 
dulity chiefly;  yet  I  could  see  nothing  improbable  in 
the  play  as  far  as  it  had  gone.  I  was  but  lightly  at- 
tending, for  my  own  purposes,  as  you  youngsters  skim 
your  betters  for  review;  but  thus  far  the  situation 
struck  me  as  at  once  feasible  and  promising.  Also 
it  all  seemed  somehow  familiar  to  me;  I  could  not  say 
just  where  or  why,  for  watching  Pharazyn's  face. 
And  it  was  his  face  that  told  me  at  last,  in  the  second 
act.    By  God,  it  was  his  own  play! 

"  It  was  Pharazyn's  play,  superficially  altered  all 
through,  nowhere  substantially;  but  the  only  play  for 
me,  when  I  knew  that,  was  being  acted  in  the  front 
row  of  the  pit,  and  not  on  the  stage,  to  which  I  had 
turned  the  side  of  my  head.  I  watched  my  old 
friend's  face  writhe  and  work  until  it  stiffened  in  a 
savage  calm;  and  watching,  I  thought  of  the  '  first 
night '  he  had  pictured  jovially  in  the  old  days,  when 
the  bare  idea  of  the  piece  was  bursting  his  soul;  and 


84  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

thinking,  I  wondered  whether  it  could  add  a  drop  to 
his  bitterness  to  remember  that  too. 

"  Yet,  through  all  my  thoughts,  I  was  listening, 
intently  enough  now.  And  in  the  third  act  I  heard 
the  very  words  my  friend  had  written:  they  had  not 
meddled  with  his  lines  in  the  great  scene  which  had 
moved  us  both  to  tears  long  ago  in  my  rooms.  And 
this  I  swear  to,  whether  you  believe  it  or  no — that  at 
the  crisis  of  that  scene,  which  was  just  as  Pharazyn 
made  it,  the  quiet  ferocity  transfiguring  his  face  died 
suddenly  away,  and  I  saw  it  shining  as  once  before 
with  the  sweetest  tears  our  eyes  can  shed — the  tears 
of  an  artist  over  his  own  work. 

"  And  when  the  act  was  over  he  sat  with  his  head 
on  his  hand  for  some  minutes,  drinking  in  the  ap- 
plause, -as  I  well  knew;  then  he  left  his  seat  and 
squeezed  out  on  my  side  of  the  house,  and  I  made 
sure  he  was  coming  to  speak  to  me  over  the  barrier, 
and  got  up  to  speak  to  him;  but  he  would  not  see  me, 
but  stood  against  the  barrier  with  a  face  as  white  and 
set  as  chiselled  marble. 

"  What  followed  on  the  first  fall  of  the  curtain  I 
can  tell  you  as  quickly  as  it  happened.  Louder  call 
for  an  author  I  never  heard,  and  I  turned  my  eyes  to 
the  stage  in  my  intense  curiosity  to  see  who  would 
come  forward;  for  the  piece  had  been  brought  out 
anonymously;  and  I  divined  that  Morrison  himself 
was  about  to  father  it.  And  so  he  did:  but  as  the  lie 
passed  his  lips,  and  in  the  interval  before  the  ap- 


"AUTHOR!    AUTHOR!"  85 

plause — the  breathless  interval  between  flash  and  peal 
— the  lie  was  given  him  in  a  roar  of  fury  from  my 
left:  there  was  a  thud  at  my  side,  and  Pharazyn  was 
over  the  barrier  and  bolting  down  the  gangway 
towards  the  stage.  I  think  he  was  near  making  a  leap 
for  the  footlights  and  confronting  Morrison  on  his 
own  boards;  but  the  orchestra  came  between,  and  the 
fiddlers  rose  in  their  places.  Then  he  turned  wildly 
to  us  pressmen,  and  I  will  say  he  had  our  ear,  if  not 
that  of  the  whole  house  besides,  for  the  few  words  he 
was  allowed  to  utter. 

"  '  Gentlemen! '  he  cried  at  the  top  of  his  voice — 
*  Gentlemen,  I'm  one  of  you!  I'm  a  writing  man  like 
yourselves,  and  I  wrote  this  play  that  you've  seen. 
That  man  never  wrote  it  at  all — I  wrote  it  myself! 
That  man  has  only  altered  it.  I  read  it  to  him  two 
years  ago — two  years  ago,  gentlemen!  He  kept  it 
for  a  week,  and  then  got  me  to  burn  it  as  rubbish 
— when  he  had  made  a  copy  of  it!  And  he  gave 
me  this,  gentlemen — this — this — that  I  give  him 
back! ' 

"  It  was  a  matter  of  only  a  few  seconds,  but  not  till 
my  own  last  hour  shall  I  forget  Morrison's  painted 
face  on  the  stage,  or  that  sweating  white  one  beneath 
the  boxes;  or  the  fluttering  from  Pharazyn's  poor 
fingers  of  the  five-pound  note  he  had  treasured  for 
two  years;  or  the  hush  all  over  the  house  until  the 
first  hand  was  laid  upon  his  dirty  collar. 

"'What!'   he  screamed,  'do  none  of  you  believe 


86  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

me?    Will  none  of  you  stand  by  me — isn't  there  a 
man — not  one  man- — ' 

"  And  they  threw  him  out  with  my  name  on  his  lips. 
And  I  followed,  and  floored  a  brute  who  was  handling 
him  roughly.  And  nothing  happened  to  me — be- 
cause of  what  happened  to  Pharazyn." 

The  dear  old  boy  sat  silent,  his  grey  head  on  his 
hand.  Presently  he  went  on,  more  to  himself  than  to 
me:  "  What  could  I  do?  What  proof  had  I?  He  had 
burnt  them  every  one.  And  as  long  as  the  public 
would  stand  him,  Morrison  kept  his  good  name  at 
least.    And  that  play  was  his  great  success! " 

I  ventured  gently  to  inquire  what  had  happened  to 
Pharazyn. 

"  He  died  in  my  arms,"  my  old  friend  cried,  throw- 
ing up  his  head  with  an  oath  and  a  tear.  "  He  died 
in  a  few  minutes  outside  the  theatre.  I  could  hear 
them  clapping  after  he  was  dead — clapping  his  piece." 


THE  WIDOW   OF  PIPER'S  POINT 

On  the  green  shores  of  Sydney  harbour,  in  a  garden 
bounded  by  the  beach,  there  sat  long  ago  a  wizened, 
elderly  gentleman  and  a  middle-aged,  sweet-faced 
woman  in  widow's  weeds.  It  was  a  glaring  afternoon 
in  early  summer,  but  a  bank  of  ferns  protected  the 
couple  from  the  sun,  the  blue  waters  of  Port  Jackson 
frothed  coolly  upon  the  ribbon  of  golden  sand  at  their 
feet,  and  the  gentleman  at  all  events  was  suitably 
attired.  He  wore  a  pair  of  nankeen  trousers,  fitting 
very  close  and  strapped  under  the  instep,  with  a  sur- 
tout  of  the  same  material.  A  very  tall,  very  narrow- 
brimmed  hat  rested  on  the  ground  between  his  chair 
and  that  of  the  lady;  and  his  card,  still  lying  in  her 
lap,  proclaimed  a  first  visit  on  the  part  of  Major 
Thomas  Blacker,  late  of  the  Eoyal  Artillery,  but  now 
relegated  to  Rose  Bay,  New  South  Wales. 

Mrs.  Astley  was,  in  fact,  a  new  and  interesting  ar- 
rival in  the  settlement,  who,  having  found  the  cottage 
to  the  south-east  of  Point  Piper  untenanted  when  she 
landed,  had  taken  it  within  a  week  of  that  time,  as  if 
to  eschew  her  new  world  as  she  had  fled  the  old.  Her 
nearest  neighbour  was  the  major  himself,  who  lived  on 
the  opposite  shore  of  Eose  Bay,  a  mile  away  by  land 

87 


88  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

and  half  that  distance  by  water.  He  had  not  been  five 
minutes  in  the  widow's  garden  when  he  pointed  across 
the  bay  with  his  cane,  and  called  her  attention  to  a 
sunlit  window  blazing  among  the  trees. 

"  That's  my  place,  madam,"  said  the  major  in  an 
impressive  voice.  "  You  can't  see  it  properly  for  the 
scrub;  but  that's  where  you'll  find  me  when  you  re- 
quire my  services.  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  trouble  with 
your  convict  servants;  if  you  don't  you'll  be  different 
from  everybody  else;  when  you  do,  you  come  to  me." 

The  widow  bowed  and  smiled,  and  asked  her  visitor 
whether  it  was  long  since  he  had  been  in  England.  It 
was  seven  years:  there  had  been  sad  changes  in  the 
time.  George  the  Fourth  was  gone,  and  poor  dear 
Edmund  Kean;  the  stalls  would  never  look  upon  his 
like  again.  No,  the  theatre  in  Sydney  was  of  the  poor- 
est description;  madam  must  not  dream  of  going 
there,  at  least  not  without  the  major's  protection. 
Madam  had  entertained  no  such  dream;  she  was 
merely  making  talk.  A  green-backed,  paper-covered 
book  lay  on  her  lap  with  the  major's  card;  she  handed 
him  the  book,  and  asked  him  whether  he  had  heard  of 
it.  He  had  not,  nor  of  the  author  either.  "  Posthu- 
mous Papers,"  eh?  Melancholy  sound  about  it:  was 
it  worth  reading? 

"Worth  reading?"  said  Mrs.  Astley,  with  a  par- 
donable smile.  "Well,  it  is  considered  so  in  Eng- 
land; but  I  doubt  whether  anybody  ever  found  any 
book  so  well  worth  reading  as  I  have  found  this:   it 


THE    WIDOW    OF    PIPER'S    POINT  89 

has  made  me  forget  a  great  sorrow  when  nothing  else 
could — forget  it  by  the  hour  together!  It  is  still  ap- 
pearing in  monthly  parts.  I  am  going  to  have  the 
remaining  numbers  sent  out  to  me,  and  I  can  lend 
you  the  early  ones." 

"Ah,  very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure,"  remarked  the 
major;  but  he  was  thinking  of  something  else.  "  I 
can't  imagine  what  can  have  brought  you  to  such  a 
God-forsaken  spot  as  this!  "  he  cried  out. 

"  Because  it  is  forsaken,"  murmured  the  widow. 

"But  alone!" 

"  I  wish  to  be  alone." 

The  major  picked  up  his  hat. 

"  Madam,"  said  he,  "  I  would  not  for  the  world 
prolong  an  unwelcome  intrusion;  yet  if  you  knew  this 
settlement  as  I  know  it  you  would  understand  the 
anxiety  of  an  old  stager  like  myself  to  render  you  all 
the  assistance,  and  I  may  say  the  protection,  in  my 
power.  It  may  seem  officious  to  you  now,  hut  you 
will  understand  it,  my  dear  madam,  when  you've  been 
out  here  as  long  as  I  have."  And  with  that  the  major 
held  out  his  hand;  but  Mrs.  Astley  laid  hers  upon  his 
arm. 

"  I  understand  it  already,"  she  replied,  sweetly;  "  it 
is  you  who  misunderstand  me.  I  do  appreciate  your 
kindness  in  coming  to  see  me  like  this;  you  will  know 
it,  too,  the  first  difficulty  I  am  in;  for  I  shall  not  hesi- 
tate to  take  you  at  your  generous  word.  And  I  shall 
always  be  glad  to  receive  you,  sir,  when  you  will  do  me 


90  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

the  honour  of  calling.  Only  I  have  suffered  deeply. 
I  am  here  to  avoid  society,  not  to  seek  it,  and — but 
surely,  Major  Blacker,  you  can  sympathise  with  me 
there?" 

"  I  can  indeed,"  cried  the  honest  major.  "  It  was 
the  death  of  my  own  dear  wife  that  drove  me  to  New 
South  Wales." 

The  fact,  however  (and  it  was  one),  was  scarcely 
stated  with  the  pathos  it  deserved;  the  gallant 
speaker  being  occupied,  indeed,  in  noting  the  few 
lines  and  the  many  beauties  of  the  comely  face  so  com- 
passionately raised  to  his. 

"  Then  our  case  is  the  same,  and  we  must  be 
friends,"  said  the  widow  very  gently,  as  she  rose. 
And  she  accompanied  her  visitor  to  the  gate,  keeping 
him  waiting,  however,  on  the  way,  while  she  found 
the  early  numbers  of  her  book. 

"  Eead  them,"  she  said,  "  and  you  will  come  for 
more.  Oh,  how  I  envy  you  having  to  begin  at  the 
very  beginning,  and  not  knowing  one  word  of  what  is 
to  come!  I  shall  hear  you  laughing  across  the  bay! 
Oh,  yes,  I  will  come  and  see  your  house  one  day;  but 
I  can  come  no  further  as  I  am,  and  here  is  the  gate." 

"  One  moment,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  glancing  at 
a  man  who  was  at  work  in  the  front  garden,  and  lower- 
ing his  voice.    "  A  convict?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  A  gentleman  convict,  as  they  say,  by  the  cut  of 
him,"  muttered  the  major;    "  and  that's  the  very 


THE   WIDOW    OF   PIPER'S   POINT  91 

worst  sort.  Look  you,  madam,  if  that  fellow  gives  you 
the  slightest  trouble,  you  let  me  know." 

"What  could  you  do?" 

"  Get  him  fifty  lashes!  "  replied  the  major  vindic- 
tively. "  I  should  have  mentioned  that  I  happen  to 
be  a  magistrate  of  the  colony.  You  may  bring  your 
man  before  me  in  my  own  house  any  day  you  like, 
and  for  the  first  piece  of  impudence  he  shall  have  his 
fifty.  I  also  happen  to  possess  some  private  influence 
with  the  Governor.  I  need  hardly  say  that  it  would 
be  my  privilege  to  use  it  in  your  interest,  could  you 
but  show  me  the  way." 

"  You  have  influence  with  the  Governor?  "  cried 
the  widow,  with  an  animation  which  she  had  not  hith- 
erto displayed,  and  which  vastly  enhanced  her  charms. 
"  Then  get  my  poor  gardener,  not  fifty  lashes,  but 
his  ticket-of -leave! " 

The  other  gazed  upon  her  with  kindling  admira- 
tion, and  a  pleasant,  smiling  tolerance. 

"A  philanthropist!"  said  he.  "An  enthusiast  in 
philanthropy!  Only  wait,  my  dear  lady,  until  you've 
been  out  here  a  little  longer.  Why,  I  shall  have  the 
fellow  before  me  in  a  week!  " 

And  taking  off  his  hat  as  he  spoke,  the  major 
jerked  his  bald  head  in  the  direction  of  the  convict 
gardener,  and  departed  chuckling;  but  turned  more 
thoughtful  on  the  way,  and  reached  home  walking 
slowly,  his  yellow  face  ploughed  with  thought.  Major 
Blacker  was  sixty  years  of  age,  but  he  never  considered 


92  SOME   PEESONS   UNKNOWN 

himself  an  old  man,  and  now  of  a  sudden  he  felt  full 
ten  years  younger.  He  consulted  his  glass  when  he 
got  in;  the  climate  had  dried  him  up  a  little;  but 
there  were  black  hairs  in  his  whiskers  yet,  and  a 
youthful  glitter  in  his  mirrored  eyes  which  he  hoped 
had  not  been  wanting  in  the  late  interview.  Major 
Blacker  had  lived;  and  now  the  desire  was  come  to 
him  to  live  a  little  more.  Turning  from  the  mirror  to 
his  bedroom  window  he  beheld  the  smoke  of  the 
widow's  cottage  making  a  grey  lane  through  the  sun- 
set; in  between  and  down  below  the  fretted  floor  of 
the  bay  was  rosy  indeed  from  shore  to  shore;  over- 
head an  incredible  blue  was  fast  changing  to  richest 
purple.  And  to  such  accompaniments  of  the  eye,  and 
in  blood  as  cold  as  you  please,  the  major's  mind  was 
made  up. 

Two  days  later — in  ,a  community  which  counted 
three  men  to  the  woman,  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost 
— in  two  days,  therefore,  Major  Blacker  presented 
himself  once  more  at  the  widow's  cottage.  He  had 
devoured  his  'Pickwick  to  the  last  line  of  the  second 
number,  and  the  book  armed  him  both  with  a  topic  of 
familiar  conversation  and  an  excuse  for  a  second  visit 
so  precipitate.  He  needed  numbers  three  and  four; 
but  the  widow  was  from  home;  the  assigned  servant 
had  taken  her  out  in  a  boat. 

The  assigned  servant!  the  gardener!  in  that  har- 
bour full  of  sharks!  The  major  strode  through  the 
cottage,  was  shown  the  boat  rounding  Shark  Island 


THE    WIDOW    OF    PIPER'S    POINT  93 

homeward  bound,  and  elected  to  await  the  lady's  land- 
ing in  her  own  garden.  He  must  speak  seriously  to 
Mrs.  Astley.  It  was  bad  enough  for  an  unprotected 
woman  to  live  alone  in  that  lonely  place  with  a  convict 
man-servant  and  a  maid  who  was  doubtless  a  convict 
also.  But  to  trust  herself  upon  the  water  with  the 
male  criminal  and  none  beside!  It  was  worse  than 
madness.  The  poor  lady  was  in  need  of  a  friend  to 
warn  her  of  her  danger,  and  she  should  find  that  friend 
in  Thomas  Blacker. 

The  major  stood  twirling  his  moustaches  by  the 
water's  edge  until  the  boat's  keel  slid  into  the  sand. 
His  eye  was  on  the  convict,  a  tall,  bearded,  round- 
shouldered  man,  who  hung  his  head  (as  well  he  might, 
thought  the  major)  before  that  ferocious  orb.  It  was 
the  visitor  who  helped  Mrs.  Astley  to  alight  on  dry 
land,  and  there  and  then  broke  out,  without  a  word 
of  apology  for  his  presence  in  her  garden.  Did  she 
know  what  she  was  doing — trusting  herself  in  that 
cockleshell  with  a  transported  ruffian — a  desperado 
who  would  murder  her  in  a  minute  if  it  seemed  worth 
his  while?  Had  no  one  told  her  the  harbour  was  full 
of  sharks?  But  the  land  sharks  in  Sydney  itself,  the 
felons  and  malefactors  stalking  at  large  there  in  the 
light  of  day,  were  as  bad  and  worse;  yet  she  could 
trust  herself  willingly  to  one  of  these! 

Mrs.  Astley  had  changed  colour  at  his  words. 

"Hush!"  she  cried  at  last.  "He  will  hear 
you." 


94  SOME    PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

"  He!  "  exclaimed  the  martinet.  "  What  do  I  care 
what  lie  hears?    Let  him  listen  and  take  heed." 

"  But  /  care/'  insisted  the  lady  in  an  imploring 
voice.  "  I  take  an  interest  in  the  poor  fellow.  I  am 
sorry  for  him.  He  has  been  telling  me  all  about  his 
trouble." 

"Trouble!"  sneered  the  major.  "That's  what 
they  all  call  it.    What's  his  name?  " 

"  Whybrow." 

"  Not  Whybrow  the  forger?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  all  I  can  say,  my  dear  lady,"  cried  the  major 
in  his  most  pompous  manner,  "  is  that  I  sincerely 
hope  you  have  brought  no  plate  or  valuables  to  this 
accursed  country;  if  you  have  I  beg  of  you  to  let  me 
take  them  to  my  bank  to-morrow.  Whybrow  might 
hesitate  to  cut  your  throat — I  doubt  if  he  has  the 
pluck  for  one  thing — but  he'll  rob  you  as  sure  as  you 
stand  there.  I  remember  his  case  very  well.  A  more 
accomplished  villain  has  never  been  transported. 
He'd  rob  a  church,  so  you  may  be  quite  sure  he'll 
rob  you;  it's  only  a  question  of  time  and  opportu- 
nity." 

Mrs.  Astley  turned  on  her  heel,  took  a  few  quick 
steps  towards  the  house,  turned  again  and  rejoined 
her  neighbour. 

"  Has  he  ever  got  into  trouble  out  here?  "  she  de- 
manded. "  Has  he  once  been  up  before  you  or  any 
one  of  your  brother  magistrates?    Is  there  anything 


THE    WIDOW    OF    PIPER'S    POINT  95 

at  all  against  him  but  the  single  offence  for  which  he 
was  transported?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of/'  admitted  the  other  with  a 
shrug;  "  but  he's  a  clever  man,  he  would  naturally  be- 
have pretty  well." 

"  So  well  that  you  didn't  even  know  he  was  in  the 
settlement;  yet  you  are  ready,  for  that  one  crime  in 
the  past,  to  credit  him  with  any  villainy  present  or  to 
come !  Oh,  can  you  wonder  that  men  grow  worse  out 
here,  if  that  is  all  you  expect  of  them?  If  you  treat 
your  convicts  like  dogs,  whip  them  like  dogs,  and 
never  credit  them  with  a  single  remnant  of  their  na- 
tive manhood,  how  can  you  expect  ever  to  make  them 
into  the  men  they  were?  Yet  what  is  this  country  for, 
if  not  to  give  the  wicked  and  the  weak  another 
chance,  a  fresh  start?  Oh,  I  have  no  patience  with 
your  view,  sir,  that  once  a  villain  is  always  one;  I 
have  heard  it  on  all  sides  of  me  since  I  landed;  but 
I  tell  you  it  is  abominable — hateful — inhuman — 
immoral! " 

Major  Blacker  bowed  his  head.  His  eyes  could  not 
conceal  their  admiration;  the  fire  in  hers  was  a  revela- 
tion to  him;  he  had  sought  a  woman  and  found  a 
queen,  and  the  falseness  (to  his  mind)  of  her  premiss 
took  not  a  whit  from  his  delight. 

"  Madam,"  said  he,  pointing  with  his  cane  to  the 
subject  of  this  argument,  who  had  drawn  up  the  boat 
and  was  carrying  in  the  oars;  "  madam,  I  am  only 
sorry  for  one  thing.    I  am  only  sorry  I  am  not  yonder 


96  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

gardener,  with  you  for  my  champion  and  defender!  I 
withdraw  every  word  I  have  said.  Assigned  to  you,  I 
can  well  believe  that  the  greatest  rogue  in  the  settle- 
ment would  soon  become  an  honest  man!  " 

"  It  depends  so  entirely  on  us,"  cried  the  widow, 
never  heeding  the  compliments  in  her  enthusiasm. 
"  Oh,  I  think  we  have  so  much  to  answer  for!  In  his 
last  place  he  was  treated  horribly;  it  was  up  the  coun- 
try; no,  I  must  not  mention  names,  only  I  know  from 
Whybrow  that  the  chain-gang  was  rest  and  peace  after 
what  he  had  gone  through  at  that  man's  hands.  It 
was  from  a  chain-gang  he  came  to  me.  He  has  been 
nearly  three  years  in  the  colony.  He  was  transported 
for  seven.  Oh,  don't  you  think  it  would  be  possible  to 
get  him  his  ticket  this  summer?  " 

The  major  felt  a  warm  hand  upon  his  arm;  the 
major  saw  eyes  of  liquid  blue,  lit  with  enthusiasm, 
and  gazing  appealingly  into  his  own.  They  had 
reached  the  cottage,  and  were  standing  in  a  tiny  morn- 
ing-room filled  with  flowers  and  heavy  with  their 
scent.    The  major  felt  younger  than  ever. 

"  I  could  try,"  he  said,  "  but  I  fear  it  wouldn't  be 
much  good.  Four  years'  servitude  is  the  limit.  I'm 
afraid  we  shouldn't  have  much  chance." 

"  Try!  "  said  the  widow.  "It  would  be  an  act  of 
humanity,  and  one  for  which  I  should  feel  personally 
grateful  all  my  life." 

The  major  tried,  and  won  the  gratitude  without 
achieving  the  result  desired.    Perhaps  he  did  not  try 


THE   WIDOW   OP   PIPER'S   POINT  97 

quite  so  hard  as  he  pretended,  and  perhaps  in  time 
the  widow  detected  in  him  a  lukewarmness  for  the 
cause  upon  which  she  had  set  her  unreasonable  heart; 
at  all  events  the  major  failed  to  make  the  quick  ad- 
vance he  had  counted  upon  in  Mrs.  Astley's  affections. 
At  the  end  of  the  summer  their  friendship  was  still 
nothing  more,  and  the  convict  gardener  still  a  convict 
gardener.  As  neighbours,  the  pair  would  read  to- 
gether the  Pickwick  numbers  as  they  came  and  play 
an  occasional  game  of  cribbage  in  the  major's  veran- 
dah; but  as  sure  as  that  veteran  uttered  a  sentimental 
word  touching  his  lonely  condition  or  hers  (and  the 
one  involved  the  other),  so  surely  would  the  widow 
rise  and  beg  him  to  escort  her  home.  Nor  did  the  view 
from  the  Old  Point  Piper  Road  soften  her  at  all  with 
its  sparkling  moonlit  brilliance.  Yet  it  was  here, 
early  in  the  following  summer,  that  the  gallant  old 
fellow,  after  an  extra  half-bottle  with  his  dinner,  at 
last  declared  himself. 

Mrs.  Astley  heard  him  with  an  expressionless  face 
turned  towards  the  harbour;  but  ere  he  finished,  the 
moonlight  that  strewed  those  waters  with  shimmering 
gems  had  found  two  also  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  cried.  "  I  loved  my  husband — I 
love  him  still — I  shall  never  marry  again !  " 

"  But  so  did  I  love  my  sainted  wife,"  protested  the 

major;   "  yet  I  would  marry  to-morrow.     I  consider 

it  no  disrespect  to  the  dead;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  the 

highest  compliment  we  can  pay  them,  as  showing  so 

7 


98  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

happy  an  experience  of  wedlock  that  we  would  fain 
repeat  it.  Not  that  I  have  thought  so  always,"  he 
added  hastily,  to  quell  a  look  which  made  him  uncom- 
fortable. 

"I  don't  believe  you  think  so  now,"  replied  the 
candid  widow.  "  You  not  only  mean  less  than  you 
say;  you  feel  less;  and  must  forgive  me,  for  you  may 
not  know  it  yourself,  but  a  woman  is  never  deceived. 
Think  it  over  and  you  will  agree  with  me;  but  never, 
never  let  us  speak  of  this  again.  It  hurts  me  to  hurt 
you — and  I  like  you  so  much  as  a  friend!  " 

As  for  Thomas  Blacker,  the  first  plunge  had  com- 
pletely sobered  him,  and  he  bitterly  repented  that  in- 
discretion of  the  table  which  had  led  him  into  a 
declaration  as  premature  as  it  had  been  also  unpre- 
meditated. As  a  soldier,  however,  he  took  no  kindlier 
to  retreat  for  the  mere  fact  of  deploring  his  advance; 
retreat,  indeed,  was  out  of  the  question:  and  the 
major's  further  protestations  were  pitched  in  a  key 
calculated  to  acquit  him  of  a  charge  which  rankled, 
being  true. 

"  Your  answer  I  accept,  and  can  bear,"  he  retorted 
with  dignity,  "  but  not  your  misjudgment  of  my  feel- 
ings. That  would  be  cruel — if  you  were  capable  of 
cruelty.  Permit  me  at  least  to  say  that  it  shows  an 
ignorance  of  my  real  nature  which  cuts  me  to  the 
quick.  I  have  expressed  myself  but  poorly  if  you  can 
still  doubt  my  readiness  to  devote  my  life  to  you — ay, 
or  to  lay  it  down  if  need  be  for  your  sake!    There  is 


THE   WIDOW    OF    PIPER'S   TOINT  90 

nothing  I  would  not  do  for  you.  The  lightest  service 
I  should  esteem  my  privilege." 

The  widow  laughed,  hut  not  unkindly;  on  the  con- 
trary, her  hand  slid  through  the  major's  arm  with 
her  words,  as  if  to  sheath  their  edge. 

"  There  was  one  thing  you  once  promised  to  do  for 
me,"  she  said.    "  It  is  not  done  yet!  " 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  groaned  with  an  in- 
ward oath.    "  Your  assigned  gardener! " 

"  Exactly." 

"  I  tried  my  best." 

"  Could  you  not  try  again?  " 

"  If  I  did,"  said  the  major  hoarsely,  "  would  it  make 
any  difference  to  the  answer  you  would  give  me  if  I 
said  again  what  I  have  said  to-night?  I  tell  you  can- 
didly I  begin  to  feel  jealous  of  that  convict.  I  shall  be 
glad  to  see  his  back." 

The  woman  gave  a  little  nervous  laugh,  but  no 
answer. 

"  Would  it  make  any  difference?  "  he  repeated. 

"I  cannot  bargain  like  that,"  sighed  the  widow, 
turning  away. 

"And  you  are  right! "  exclaimed  the  other,  hotly 
flushing.  "I  unsay  that;  I'm  ashamed  of  it.  But 
I'll  get  that  ticket-of-leave  this  summer,  or  I'll  never 
look  you  in  the  face  again!  " 

And  this  time  Thomas  Blacker  went  to  work  in 
earnest;  but  then  a  year  had  passed  since  his  former 
half-hearted  attempt  of  foregone  futility;    and  the 


100  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

forlorn  hope  of  that  season  was  the  easy  goal  of  this. 
The  major,  without  doubt,  stood  well  at  Government 
House;  he  was  secretly  engaged  upon  plans  for  the 
fortifications  of  the  harbour,  and  had  the  ear  of  his 
Excellency  in  magisterial  matters  as  well.  What  he 
had  mentioned  only  tentatively  and  not  altogether 
seriously  the  year  before,  he  now  urged  as  a  peculiarly 
deserving  case.  And  in  no  more  than  a  day  or  two 
he  had  the  pleasure  of  calling  at  the  cottage,  with  a 
paper  for  the  widow  to  sign,  and  of  meeting  the  gar- 
dener on  the  path  as  he  was  coming  away. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  what  I  have  here,  my  man?  " 
cried  the  major,  tapping  a  breast  inflated  with  con- 
scious benevolence. 

"  The  mistress  has  mentioned  it,"  replied  the  man, 
trembling  in  an  instant.  "  I  am  deeply  grateful,  sir, 
to  you.    I  little  thought  to  get  it  yet." 

"  Nor  have  you,  sir,  nor  have  you,"  said  the  major 
briskly.  "  Your  ticket's  no  ticket  till  it's  signed  by 
the  Governor  and  safe  in  your  hands.  However,"  he 
added,  with  a  touch  of  the  self-importance  he  enjoyed. 
"  I  have  promised  your  mistress  to  use  my  influence  in 
your  behalf,  so  by  the  end  of  the  week  you  may  very 
possibly  hear  from  me  again." 

And  as  if  to  finish  the  thing  off  with  a  flourish 
Thomas  Blacker  was  finally  even  better  than  his  word, 
for,  as  far  from  the  end  of  the  week  as  the  Wednesday 
evening,  he  dined  in  Sydney  and  rode  out  by  moon- 
light and  the  Point   Piper  Eoad   with   Whybrow's 


THE    WIDOW    OF    PIPER'S    POINT  101 

ticket  signed  and  sealed  in  his  pocket.  Once  more  the 
major  had  dined  well,  but  this  time  not  unwisely;  yet 
his  heart  was  troubled  with  a  trouble  which  had  never 
entered  his  calculations  hitherto.  His  brother  was 
dead;  his  brother's  estates  were  now  his  own.  The 
incoming  mail  had  brought  the  news,  and  with  it  a 
round  of  applause  and  congratulations  from  connec- 
tions and  friends  who  for  years  had  ignored  his  ex- 
istence. The  major  was  in  a  private  quandary  of  the 
spirit;  he  was  quite  unable  to  make  up  his  mind. 
Should  he  go  home  a  married  man,  or  should  he  see 
his  time-serving  friends  to  the  deuce  and  never  go 
home  at  all?  The  tropic  moon  and  the  heavenly  har- 
bour inclined  him  to  the  latter,  certain  phrases  in  Ms 
home-letters  to  the  former  course;  but  what  about  his 
wife?  She  was  qualified  to  adorn  any  society  in  which 
the  major  had  ever  moved,  but — there  were  buts. 
The  major  was  gallant  enough  to  try  to  ignore  them, 
but  there  they  were.  At  home  he  was  not  sure  that  he 
should  want  to  be  married  at  all;  here  it  was  a  differ- 
ent thing;  and  here,  no  doubt,  he  would  end  his  days 
after  all.  There  were  worse  places.  These  moonlight 
nights  made  the  place  a  paradise  of  soft  airs  and  rust- 
ling leaves,  and  miles  and  miles  of  a  jewelled  carpet 
beneath  the  white-starred  ceiling  of  the  Southern  sky. 
Yes,  it  was  a  spot  to  live  and  die  in,  and  be  thankful; 
and  yes!    he  would  marry  the  widow,  if  the  widow 

would  marry  him.    And  after  the  other  night 

The  major  had  reached  the  cottage  gate.    Here  he 


102  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

dismounted,  tethering  his  horse  within.  There  were 
voices  and  lights,  both  low,  in  the  cottage;  the 
French  windows  were  wide  open  to  the  night;  and  an 
ignoble  instinct,  begotten  of  a  swift  suspicion  that 
was  more  truly  an  inspiration,  caused  the  major  to 
advance  upon  the  grass.  So  he  crept  nearer — nearer 
yet — within  earshot.  And  the  first  words  he  heard 
confirmed  him  in  his  deceit.  By  heaven!  there  should 
be  trick  for  trick! 

"  Darling,"  said  the  widow's  voice — the  sweet  voice 
that  had  beguiled  him — "it  will  be  the  end  of  the 
week  to-morrow — well,  then,  next  day;  and  after 
that  we  will  hide  it  no  more.  Let  us  brazen  it  out!  I 
am  always  ready;  and  you,  you  will  have  the  right  to 
take  care  of  me  as  you  should:  you  will  have  your 
ticket-of-leave." 

"  Never!  "  muttered  the  major  between  his  teeth, 
and  he  crushed  up  the  paper  he  held  ready  in  his  hand. 
He  forgot  his  doubts  upon  the  moonlit  road.  The  in- 
jured man  was  all  the  man  now.  He  crept  still  nearer 
and  saw  that  for  which  he  was  now  so  fully  prepared : 
the  widow  reposing  in  the  convict's  arms. 

"  There's  only  one  thing  that  troubles  me,"  the 
man  was  saying  (though  his  twitching,  restless  face 
was  an  eternal  sea  of  trouble  and  remorse),  "  and  that 
is  your  poor  old  major.  He  has  turned  up  trumps  " 
("  I'm  damned  if  he  has,"  muttered  the  major  behind 
the  leaves),  "  and  it  does  seem  a  shame.  I  fear  the 
other  night  you  must  have  led  him  on." 


THE    WIDOW    OF    PIPER'S    POINT  103 

"  I  did,"  replied  the  woman,  with  a  groan  for  which 
she  received  no  credit.  "  I  did — I  could  not  help  it. 
It  grieves  me  to  think  of  it;  I  am  so  ashamed;  but, 
darling,  it  was  for  you!  " 

'•  Was  it  indeed?"  cried  the  major,  striding  into 
the  room  with  sounding  heels  and  jingling  spurs;  and 
he  stood  there  twirling  his  moustache.  The  woman 
was  first  upon  her  feet.  The  man's  face  sank  into  his 
hands. 

"  It  was,"  she  repeated  boldly.  "  And  oh,  sir,  even 
you  will  forgive  me  when  I  tell  you  all! " 

"  Naturally,"  sneered  the  other — "  if  I  stopped  to 
listen.  But  explanations  I  imagine  would  be  some- 
what superfluous  after  this.  Here,  you  may  have  it," 
he  added,  opening  his  hand  and  letting  the  crumpled 
ticket  drop  with  an  air  of  ineffable  contempt.  "  I 
won't  condescend  to  put  it  back  in  my  pocket,  as  you 
deserve;  take  it — and  marry  the  man,  for  God's  sake, 
at  the  nearest  church!  " 

The  woman  laid  a  tender  hand  upon  the  bowed 
and  bended  head  at  which  Thomas  Blacker  glanced 
in  righteous  scorn. 

"  Marry  him  I  cannot,"  said  she.  "  We  have  been 
married  these  fifteen  years." 


AFTER  THE  FACT 


It  is  my  good  fortune  to  cherish  a  particularly  vivid 
recollection  of  the  town  of  Geelong.     Others  may 
have  found  the  place  so  dull  as  to  justify  an  echo 
of  the  cheap  local  sneer  at  its  expense;  to  me  those 
sloping  parallels  of  low  houses  have  still  a  common 
terminus  in  the  bluest  of  all  Australian  waters;  and 
I  people  the  streets,  whose  'very  names  I  have  forgot- 
ten, with  faces  of  extraordinary  kindness,  imperish- 
able while  memory  holds  her  seat.    Even  had  it  bored 
me,  I  for  one  should  have  good  reason  to  love  Geelong. 
It  was  my  lot,  however,  not  only  to  happen  upon  the 
town  in  a  week  of  unique  excitement,  but,  thanks  to 
one  of  those  chance  meetings  which  are  the  veriest 
commonplace  of  outlandish  travel,  to  have  a  finger  in 
the  pother.    I  arrived  by  the  boat  on  a  Monday  after- 
noon, to  find  the  streets  crowded  and  peace  disturbed 
by  a  sudden  run  on  one  of  the  banks.     On  the 
Wednesday,  another  bank,  which  had  notoriously  re- 
ceived much  of  the  money  withdrawn  from  the  Bar- 
won  Banking  Company,  Limited,  was  in  its  turn  the 
victim  of  a  still  uglier  fate:  the  Geelong  branch  of 

104 


AFTER    THE    FACT  105 

the  Intercolonial  was  entered  in  broad  daylight  by  a 
man  masked  and  armed  to  the  beard,  who  stayed 
some  ten  minutes,  and  then  walked  into  thin  air  with 
no  less  a  sum  than  nineteen  thousand  and  odd  pounds 
in  notes  and  gold. 

I  was  playing  lawn-tennis  with  my  then  new  friends 
when  we  heard  the  news;  and  it  stopped  our  game. 
The  bank  manager's  wife,  a  friend  of  my  friends,  ar- 
rived with  her  daughter:  the  one  incoherent,  the 
other  dumb,  with  horror  and  dismay.  And  I  heard 
at  first-hand  a  few  broken,  hysterical  words  from  the 
white  lips  of  the  elderly  lady,  and  noted  the  tearless 
trouble  in  the  wide  blue  eyes  of  the  girl,  before  it 
struck  me  to  retire.  The  family  had  been  at  luncheon 
in  the  private  part  of  the  bank,  and  knew  nothing  of 
the  affair  until  the  junior  clerk  broke  in  upon  them 
like  a  lunatic  at  large.  He,  too,  had  gone  out  for  his 
lunch,  and  returned  to  find  teller  and  cashier  alike 
insensible,  and  the  safe  rifled.  That  was  all  I  stayed 
to  gather,  save  that  the  unhappy  lady  was  agitated  by 
a  side  issue  far  worse  to  her  than  the  bank's  loss. 
There  had  been  no  bloodshed.  The  revolver  kept  be- 
neath the  counter  had  been  used,  but  used  in  vain. 
It  was  not  loaded.  Her  husband  would  be  blamed, 
nay,  discharged  to  a  certainty  in  his  old  age.  And  I, 
too,  walked  down  the  street  more  absorbed  in  the 
picture  of  an  elderly  couple  brought  to  ruin,  and  a 
blue-eyed  girl  gone  for  a  governess,  than  in  the  im- 
mediate catastrophe. 


106  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

I  found  my  way  to  the  Intercolonial  Bank;  there 
was  no  need  to  ask  it.  A  crowd  clamoured  at  the 
doors,  but  these  were  shut  for  the  day.  And  I  learned 
no  more  than  I  already  knew,  save  that  the  robber 
wore  a  black  beard,  and  was  declared  by  some  to  be 
a  second  Ned  Kelly  from  the  Strathbogie  Ranges. 
Nor  did  I  acquire  more  real  information  the  rest  of 
that  day;  nor  hope  for  any  when  late  at  night  I 
thought  I  recognised  an  old  schoolfellow  in  the 
street. 

"  Deedes  major!  "  I  cried  without  pausing  to  make 
certain;  but  I  was  certain  enough  when  my  man 
turned  and  favoured  me  with  the  stare  of  studied 
insolence  which  had  made  our  house-master's  life  a 
burden  to  him  some  ten  years  before  that  night. 
Among  a  thousand,  although  the  dark  eyes  were 
sunken  and  devil-may-care,  the  full  lips  hidden  by  a 
moustache  with  grey  hairs  in  it,  and  the  pale  face  pre- 
maturely lined,  I  could  have  sworn  to  Deedes  major 
then. 

"  Don't  know  you  from  Adam,"  said  he.  "  What 
do  you  want?  " 

"  "We  were  at  school  together,"  I  explained.  "  I  was 
your  fag  when  you  were  captain  of  footer.  To  think 
of  meeting  you  here!  " 

"  Do  tell  me  your  name,"  he  said  wearily;  and  at 
that  moment  I  recollected  (what  had  quite  escaped 
my  memory)  his  ultimate  expulsion;  and  I  stood  con- 
founded by  my  maladroitness. 


AFTER   THE    FACT  107 

"  Bower,"  said  I,  abashed. 

"  The  Beetle!  "  cried  Deedes,  not  unkindly;  a  mo- 
ment later  he  was  shaking  my  hand  and  smiling  on 
my  confusion.  "Hang  school!"  said  he.  "Where 
are  you  staying?  " 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  I'm  supposed  to  be  staying  with 
some  people  I  brought  a  letter  of  introduction  to; 
but  they  hadn't  a  room  for  me,  and  insisted  on  getting 
me  one  outside;  so  that's  where  I  am." 

"What's  their  name?"  said  Deedes;  when  I  told 
him,  he  nodded,  but  made  no  further  comment,  be- 
yond inviting  himself  to  my  room  for  a  chat.  The 
proposal  delighted  me;  indeed  it  caused  me  a  positive 
thrill,  which  I  can  only  attribute  to  an  insensible  re- 
turn of  the  small  boy's  proper  attitude  towards  a  dis- 
tinguished senior.  We  were  twenty-eight  and  twenty- 
four  now,  instead  of  eighteen  and  fourteen;  yet,  as 
we  walked,  only  one  of  us  was  a  man,  and  I  was  once 
more  his  fag.  I  felt  quite  proud  when  he  accepted  a 
cigarette  from  my  case,  prouder  yet  when  he  took  my 
arm.  The  feeling  stuck  to  me  till  we  reached  my 
room,  when  it  suddenly  collapsed.  Deedes  had  asked 
me  what  I  was  doing.  I  had  told  him  of  my  illness 
and  my  voyage,  and  had  countered  with  his  own  ques- 
tion. He  laughed  contemptuously,  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  my  bed. 

"  Clerk  in  a  bank!  "  said  he. 

"  Not  the  Intercolonial?  "  I  cried. 

"  That's  it,"  he  answered,  nodding. 


108  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

"  Then  you  were  there  to-day!  This  is  hick;  I've 
been  so  awfully  keen  to  know  exactly  what  happened." 

"  I  was  not  there,"  replied  Deedes.  "  I  was  having 
my  lunch.  I  can  only  tell  you  what  I  saw  when  I  got 
hack.  There  was  our  cashier  sprawled  across  the 
counter,  and  the  teller  in  a  heap  behind  it — both 
knocked  on  the  head.  And  there  was  the  empty  safe, 
wide  open,  with  the  sun  shining  into  it  like  a  bull's- 
eye  lantern.  No,  I  only  wish  I  had  been  there:  it's 
such  a  chance  as  I  shall  never  get  again." 

"  You'd  have  shown  fight  ?  "  said  I,  gazing  at  his 
long  athletic  limbs,  and  appreciating  the  force  of  his 
wish  as  I  perceived  in  what  threadbare  rags  they  were 
imprisoned.  "  Yes,  you'd  have  stood  up  to  the  chap, 
I  know;  I  can  see  you  doing  it!  " 

"  There  would  have  been  nothing  wonderful  in 
that,"  was  his  reply.  "  I  should  have  had  everything 
to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose." 

"Not  your  life?" 

"  It's  less  than  nothing." 

"Nonsense,  Deedes,"  said  I,  although  or  because 
I  could  see  that  it  was  not.  "  You  don't  expect  me  to 
believe  that! " 

"I  don't  care  what  you  believe,  and  it's  not  the 
point,"  he  answered.  "  Give  me  another  cigarette, 
Beetle;  you  were  asking  about  the  robbery;  if  you 
don't  mind,  we'll  confine  ourselves  to  that.  I'm  afraid 
old  I'Anson  will  get  the  sack;  he's  the  manager,  and 
responsible  for  the  bank  revolver  being  loaded.     He 


AFTER   THE  FACT  109 

swears  it  was;  we  all  thought  it  was;  but  nobody  had 
looked  at  it  for  weeks,  and  you  see  it  wasn't.  Yes, 
that's  a  rule  in  all  banks  in  this  country  where  stick- 
ing them  up  is  a  public  industry.  The  yarn  about 
Ned  Kelly's  son?  Don't  you  believe  it;  nobody  ever 
heard  of  him  before.  No,  if  you  ask  me,  we  must 
look  a  little  nearer  home  for  the  man  who  stuck  up 
our  bank  this  afternoon." 

"  Nearer  home!  "  said  I.  "  Then  you  think  it  was 
somebody  who  knew  about  the  run  upon  the  Barwon 
Banking  Company  and  the  payments  into  the  Inter- 
colonial?" 

"  Obviously;  somebody  who  knew  all  about  it,  and 
perhaps  paid  in  a  big  lump  himself.  That  would  have 
been  a  gorgeous  blind!  "  cried  Deedes,  kindling  sud- 
denly. "  Beetle,  old  chap,  I  wish  I'd  thought  of  it 
myself — only  it  would  have  meant  boning  the  capital 
too!  I  strongly  suspect  some  of  these  respectable 
Geelongese  and  Barwonners  of  being  at  the  bottom  of 
the  whole  thing,  though;  they're  so  respectable,  Bee- 
tle, there's  bound  to  be  villains  among  'em.  By 
Jove! "  he  added,  getting  to  his  feet  with  a  sinister 
light  in  his  handsome,  dissipated  countenance,  "I'll 
go  for  the  reward  when  they  put  it  up!  Four  figures 
it  can't  fall  short  of;  that  would  be  better  than  junior 
clerking  for  eighty  pounds  a  year!  "  And  he  walked 
up  and  down  my  room  laughing  softly  to  himself. 

"I'll  join  you,"  cried  I.  "I'll  go  in  for  love,  or 
honour  and  glory,  and  you  shall  pocket  the  £  s.  d." 


110  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

"  Eot! "  said  he  curtly,  yet  almost  with  the  word 
he  had  me  by  the  shoulders,  and  was  smiling  queerly 
in  my  face.  "  Why  not  join  me  in  the  other  thing?  " 
he  exclaimed.  "  You  were  well  enough  plucked  at 
school! " 

"  But  what  other  thing?  "  said  I. 

"  Doing  the  trick,"  he  cried;  "  not  finding  out  who 
did  it!" 

"  Deedes,"  said  I,  "  what  the  devil  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Mean?  What  I  say,  my  dear  Beetle — every  word 
of  it!  What's  the  use  of  being  honest?  Look  at  me. 
Look  at  my  shirt-cuffs,  that  I've  got  to  trim  every 
morning  like  my  nails;  look  at  my  trousers,  as  I  saw 
you  looking  at  'em  just  now.  Those  bags  at  the  knees 
are  honesty;  and  honesty's  rapidly  wearing  them 
through  on  an  office  stool.  I'm  as  poor  as  a  rat  in  a 
drain:  it's  all  honesty,  and  I've  had  about  enough  of 
it.  Think  of  the  fellow  who  walked  off  with  his 
fortune  this  morning,  and  then  think  of  me. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  be  in  his  shoes?  No?  My  stars, 
you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  live,  Beetle;  honest  idi- 
ots like  us  never  do.  But  I'm  going  to  turn  it  up. 
If  one  can  play  at  that  game,  two  can;  why  not  three? 
Come  on,  Beetle;  make  a  third,  and  we'll  rob  another 
bank  to-morrow! " 

"  You're  joking,"  said  I,  and  this  time  I  returned 
his  smile.  "  Still,  if  I  was  going  in  for  that  sort  of 
thing,  Deedes,  I  don't  know  who  I'd  rather  have  on 
my  side  than  you." 


AFTER   THE   FxVCT  HI 

His  smile  went  out  like  a  light. 

"  Will  you  go  in  for  it?  "  he  cried.  "  I'm  joking  far 
less  than  you  think.  My  life's  a  sordid  failure.  I'm 
sick  of  it  and  ready  for  a  fling.    Will  you  come  in?  " 

"  No,"  I  said.    "  I  won't." 

And  we  looked  each  other  steadily  in  the  eyes, 
until  he  led  me  back  to  laughter  with  as  much  ease 
as  he  had  lengthened  my  face. 

"  All  right,  old  Beetle!  "  said  he.  "  I  won't  chaff 
any  more — not  that  it  was  all  chaff  by  any  means.  I 
sometimes  feel  like  that,  and  so  would  you  in  my 
place.  Bunked  from  school!  In  disgrace  at  home! 
Sent  out  here  to  be  got  rid  of,  sent  to  blazes  in  cold 
blood!  The  things  I've  done  for  a  living  during  these 
ten  years — this  is  the  most  respectable,  I  can  tell  you 
that.    It's  the  respectability  drives  me  mad." 

His  bitter  voice,  the  lines  upon  his  face,  his  grey 
hairs  at  twenty-eight  (they  were  not  confined  to  his 
moustache),  all  appealed  to  me  with  equal  and  irre- 
sistible force;  my  hand  went  out  to  him,  and  with  it 
my  heart. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  Deedes,"  said  I  nervously.  "  If  a 
fiver  or  two — yes,  you  must  let  me!  For  the  sake  of 
the  old  school!" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  the  blood  rushed  to  mine. 
I  burst  into  apologies,  but  he  cut  me  short. 

"  That's  all  right,  Beetle.  It  was  well  meant,  and 
you're  a  good  chap.  We'll  foregather  to-morrow,  if 
this  enviable  stroke  leaves  us  a  spare  moment  in  the 


112  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

bank.  Meanwhile  good-night,  and  thanks  all  the 
same." 

And  he  crept  down  the  stairs  at  my  request;  for 
I  was  not  in  the  position  of  an  ordinary  lodger;  and 
having  followed  and  closed  the  door  noiselessly  be- 
hind him,  I  returned  as  stealthily  to  my  room.  I  did 
not  wish  my  hospitable  friends  to  know  that  I  had 
used  lodgings,  placed  at  my  disposal  as  their  guest,  as 
though  I  had  engaged  them  on  my  own  account. 
Theoretically  I  was  under  their  roof,  and  had  com- 
mitted a  breach  in  introducing  a  man  at  midnight  and 
sitting  up  in  conversation  with  him  till  all  hours. 
Deedes,  moreover,  as  I  suspected  from  his  manner 
when  I  mentioned  them,  was  most  probably  no  friend 
of  my  friends;  indeed  I  had  no  clue  to  his  reputation 
in  the  town,  and  should  have  been  surprised  to  find 
it  a  good  one.  He  had  been  a  reckless  boy  at  school; 
at  the  very  least  he  was  a  reckless  man.  And  other 
traits  must  have  developed  with  his  years;  he  had 
been  expelled,  for  instance,  for  certain  gallantries  not 
criminal  in  themselves,  but  sufficiently  demoralising 
at  a  public  school;  and,  despite  his  clothes,  I  could 
have  sworn  those  dark,  unscrupulous  eyes,  and  that 
sardonic,  insolent,  and  yet  attractive  manner,  had 
done  due  damage  in  Geelong. 

For  there  was  a  fascination  in  the  man,  incom- 
municable by  another,  and  my  despair  as  I  write. 
He  was  a  strong,  selfish  character,  one  in  whom  the 
end  permitted  any  means;  yet  there  was  that  in  him 


AFTER    THE    FACT  113 

for  which  it  is  harder  to  find  a  name,  which  attracted 
while  it  repelled,  which  enforced  admiration  in  its 
own  despite.  At  school  he  had  been  immensely  popu- 
lar and  a  bad  influence:  at  once  a  bugbear  and  an  idol 
from  the  respective  points  of  view  of  masters  and  boys. 
My  own  view  was  still  that  of  the  boy.  I  could  not 
help  it;  nor  could  I  sleep  for  thinking  of  our  singular 
rencontre  and  interview.  I  undressed,  but  shirked 
my  pillow.  I  smoked  my  pipe;  but  it  did  me  no  good. 
Finally  I  threw  up  my  window,  and  as  I  did  so  heard 
a  sound  that  interested,  and  another  that  thrilled  me. 
The  first  was  a  whistle  blowing  in  the  distance;  the 
second,  an  answering  whistle,  which  made  me  jump, 
for  it  came  from  beneath  the  very  window  at  which  I 
stood. 

I  leaned  out.  A  white  helmet  and  a  pair  of  white 
legs  flashed  under  a  lamp  and  were  gone.  My  win- 
dow was  no  impossible  height  from  the  ground,  but 
I  did  not  stay  to  measure  it.  With  the  whistles  still 
in  my  ears  I  lowered  myself  from  the  sill,  dropped 
into  a  flower-bed,  and  gave  chase  to  the  helmet  and 
the  legs,  myself  barefooted  and  in  pyjamahs. 

I  saw  my  policeman  vanish  round  a  corner.  I  was 
after  him  like  a  deer,  and  even  as  I  ran  the  position 
amused  me.  Chasing  the  police!  He  could  not  hear 
my  naked  feet;  I  gained  on  him  splendidly,  and  had 
my  hand  on  his  shoulder  before  he  knew  me  to  exist. 
His  face,  as  he  stopped  and  turned  it,  feeling  for  his 
pistol,  I  shall  remember  all  my  life. 
8 


114  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

"  All  right/'  I  cried.  "  I'm  not  the  man  you're 
after.    Hurry  up!    I'm  coming  along  to  see  the  fun." 

He  swore  in  my  teeth  and  rushed  on.  I  followed 
in  high  excitement  at  his  heels.  All  this  time  the 
first  whistle  was  blowing  through  the  night.  We  had 
reached  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  were  nearing 
the  sound.  At  length,  on  turning  a  corner,  we  came 
upon  another  drill-trousered,  pith-helmeted  gentle- 
man in  the  gateway  of  an  empty  house. 

"  That's  about  enough  of  us,"  said  he,  pocketing 
his  whistle.  "  I've  got  a  man  already  on  the  lawn  at 
the  back.  The  house  is  empty,  and  he's  in  it  like  a 
rat  in  a  trap.  But  who's  this  you've  brought  along 
with  you,  mate?  " 

"  A  volunteer,"  said  I.  "  You  won't  refuse  to  let 
me  lend  a  hand  if  I  get  the  chance?  " 

"  You'll  get  your  brains  blown  out,"  replied  the 
constable  who  had  given  the  alarm,  a  sergeant  as  I 
saw  now.  "  You'd  best  go  home,  though  I  won't  say 
but  what  we  want  all  the  men  we  can  get.  The  town's 
asleep — as  usual.    Can  you  face  powder?  " 

"  I'll  see,"  said  I,  laughing,  for  I  scarcely  suspected 
he  was  in  earnest.  "  Who  is  it  you're  after?  Some- 
body very  dangerous  ?  " 

"  The  Intercolonial  bank-robber,"  replied  the  ser- 
geant grimly.    "  What  do  you  say  now?  " 

I  said  nothing  at  all.  I  know  not  what  I  had  ex- 
pected; but  it  was  not  this;  and  for  the  moment  my 
own  density  concerned  me  as  much  as  my  fears. 


AFTEK   THE    FACT  115 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right/'  said  the  sergeant,  with  an 
intolerable  sneer.  "  You  cut  away  and  send  a  grown 
man  along  when  you  see  one!  " 

My  reply  need  not  be  recorded;  suffice  it  that  a 
moment  later  one  of  the  men,  who  both  carried  fire- 
arms, had  handed  me  his  truncheon;  and  I  was  on 
my  way  to  join  the  third  constable  on  the  lawn  be- 
hind the  house,  while  those  two  effected  an  entrance 
in  front. 


II 


The  third  constable  nearly  shot  me  through  the 
head  at  sight.  The  twinkle  of  his  pistol  caught  my 
eye;  I  threw  up  my  arms  and  declared  myself  a  friend, 
not,  as  I  believe,  one  second  too  soon.  Never  have  I 
seen  a  man  more  pitiably  excited  than  this  brave  fel- 
low on  the  back  lawn.  Brave  he  was  beyond  all  ques- 
tion; but  cool  he  was  not,  and  I  fancy  the  combina- 
tion must  be  rarer  in  real  life  than  elsewhere.  The 
man  on  the  lawn  stood  over  six  feet  in  his  boots,  and 
every  inch  of  him  was  shaking  like  a  jelly.  Yet  if 
our  quarry  had  chosen  that  moment  to  make  a  dash 
for  it  on  this  side,  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  him, 
for  my  constable  was  suffering  from  nothing  more  dis- 
creditable than  over-eagerness  for  the  fray. 

Would  that  I  could  say  as  much  for  myself!  Al- 
ready I  entirely  regretted  my  absurd  proceeding,  and 
longed  with  all  my  heart  to  escape.    It  was  out  of  the 


116  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

question.  I  had  put  my  hand  most  officiously  to  the 
plough,  but  there  it  must  stay;  and  as  it  was  too  late 
to  reconsider  my  position,  so  there  was  now  no  sense 
in  investigating  the  hare-brained  impulse  upon  which 
I  had  acted.  Yet  I  turned  it  over  in  my  mind,  stand- 
ing there  with  my  naked  feet  in  the  cold  dew,  and  I 
deplored  my  conscious  cowardice  no  less  than  my  un- 
thinking folly.  One  thing  is  certain,  had  I  reckoned 
at  all,  it  was  without  the  bank-robber,  whom  his 
would-be  imitator  had  put  quite  out  of  my  head. 
And  here  they  had  him  in  this  house!  We  saw  their 
lanterns  moving  from  room  to  room  on  the  ground- 
floor;  and  I  should  be  sorry  to  say  which  of  us  shiv- 
ered most  (from  what  different  causes),  the  third  con- 
stable or  myself. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  we  waited,  but  in  a  little 
the  lanterns  ceased  to  flit  behind  the  panes.  The 
men  had  evidently  gone  upstairs,  and  in  the  darkness 
we  heard  a  sound  as  terrifying  to  me  as  it  was  evi- 
dently welcome  to  my  companion.  "  At  last!  "  said 
he,  and  crept  up  to  the  back  door,  open-armed.  We 
had  heard  the  stealthy  drawing  of  bolts;  but  we  were 
destined,  one  of  us  to  disappointment,  the  other  to 
inexpressible  relief.  The  door  opened,  and  it  was  the 
sergeant  upon  whom  his  subordinate  would  have 
pounced.  He  stood  there,  beckoning  without  a  word; 
and  so  led  us  to  a  locked  room  next  the  kitchen.  His 
mate  had  gone  round  the  front  way  to  watch  the  win- 
dow; we  were  to  force  the  door  and  carry  the  room 


AFTER   THE    FACT  117 

by  storm;  and  in  it,  declared  the  sergeant,  we  should 
find  our  man. 

We  did  not;  and  again  I  breathed.  The  room 
was  not  only  empty;  the  window  was  fastened  on  the 
inside;  and  an  accumulation  of  the  loose  fittings  of 
the  house,  evidently  for  sale  to  the  incoming  tenant, 
seemed  to  explain  the  locked  door.  At  least  I  said 
so,  and  the  explanation  was  received  better  than  it 
deserved.  We  now  proceeded,  all  four  of  us  (abandon- 
ing system  in  our  unsuccess),  to  search  the  cellar; 
but  our  man  was  not  there,  and  I  began  to  tell  my- 
self he  was  not  in  the  house  at  all.  Thus,  as  my 
companions  lost  their  heads  and  rushed  to  the  attics 
as  one  man,  I  found  mine  and  elected  to  remain 
below.  The  room  we  had  broken  into  was  the  one  I 
chose  to  wait  in;  for  I  had  explored  no  other,  and 
wherever  else  he  might  be,  the  robber  was  not  here. 
Judge  then  of  my  feelings  when  I  heard  him  moving 
under  my  feet.  Horror  glued  me  where  I  stood,  un- 
able to  call  out,  unable  to  move;  my  eyes  fast  as  my 
feet  to  the  floor,  watching  a  board  that  moved  in  the 
dim  light  of  a  candle-end  found  and  lit  by  one  of  the 
constables  at  our  first  inspection.  The  board  moved 
upward;  a  grimy  face  appeared  through  the  aperture; 
it  was  that  of  my  old  schoolfellow,  Deedes  major. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Beetle,  help  me  out  of  this!  "  he 
whispered. 

"  Deedes! "  I  could  only  murmur;  and  again, 
"  Deedes! " 


118  SOME  PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  he  impatiently.  "  Think  of  the 
old  school — and  tell  me  where  they  are.  Are  they 
gone?" 

"  Only  upstairs.  What  on  earth's  at  the  bottom 
of  this,  Deedes?  "  I  asked  him  sternly. 

"A  mistake — a  rotten  mistake!  "  said  he.  "  They 
gave  chase  to  me  shortly  after  I  left  you.  I  got  in 
here,  but  the  one  chap  daren't  follow  me  alone,  and  I 
ripped  up  this  floor  and  got  under  while  he  was  whis- 
tling away  outside.  I  spotted  a  loose  board  by  tread- 
ing on  it,  and  that  bit  of  luck's  just  saved  my 
bacon." 

"  Has  it?  I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  I,  walking  to  the 
door  and  listening.    "  What  do  they  want  you  for?  " 

"  Would  you  believe  it?  For  sticking  up  the  bank 
— when  I  was  out  at  my  lunch!  Did  you  ever  hear 
such  rot?  " 

"I  don't  know;  if  you're  an  innocent  man,  why 
not  behave  like  one?  Why  hide — they're  coming 
down! "  I  broke  off,  hearing  them.  "  Stop  where 
you  are!    You  can  never  get  out  in  time!  " 

In  the  candle-light  his  face  gleamed  very  pale  be- 
tween the  blotches  of  dust  and  dirt;  but  I  fancied  it 
brightened  at  my  involuntary  solicitude. 

"  You  will  help  me?  "  he  whispered  eagerly.  "  For 
the  sake  of  the  good  old  school,"  he  wheedled,  play- 
ing still  upon  the  soft  spot  I  had  discovered  to  him 
earlier  in  the  night.  It  was  a  soft  spot  still.  I  re- 
membered him  in  the  fifteen  and  the  eleven;  then 


A  FT  Ell   THE    FACT  119 

overcame  the  memory,  and  saw  him  for  what  he  was 
now. 

"  Hush!  "  said  I  from  the  door.    "  I  want  to  listen." 

"  Where  are  they  now?  " 

"  Looking  on  the  next  landing." 

"  Then  now's  my  time!  " 

"  Not  it,"  said  I,  putting  my  back  against  the  door. 

He  rose  waist-high  through  the  floor,  his  dark  eyes 
blazing,  his  right  hand  thrust  within  his  coat;  and 
I  knew  what  was  in  the  hand  I  could  not  see. 

"  Pot  away!  "  I  jeered.  "  You  haven't  done  mur- 
der yet.    You  daren't  do  it  now!  " 

"  I  dare  do  anything,"  he  growled.  "  But  you — 
you'll  never  go  and  give  a  chap  away,  Beetle?  " 

"  You'll  give  yourself  away  if  you  don't  get  under 
that  this  instant.  They're  coming  down,  man!  Stop 
where  you  are,  and  I'll  see  you  later;  try  to  get  out 
of  it,  and  I  promise  you  you're  a  gone  coon!  " 

He  disappeared  without  a  word,  and  I  ran  out  to 
salute  my  comrades  in  the  hall. 

"  Well,"  cried  I,  «  what  luck?  " 

"None  at  all,"  replied  the  sergeant  angrily.  "I 
could  have  sworn  it  was  this  house,  but  I  suppose  we 
must  try  the  next.  How  we've  missed  him  is  more 
than  I  can  fathom!  " 

A  slaty  sky  denoted  imminent  dawn  as  we  emerged 
from  the  house;  the  chill  of  dawn  was  in  the  air,  and 
there  was  I  in  nothing  but  pyjamahs  One  of  the  con- 
stables remarked  upon  my  condition,  and  the  sergeant 


120  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

(good  man)  made  me  a  pathetic  speech  of  thanks,  and 
recommended  me  my  bed.  If  they  needed  further  as- 
sistance they  could  get  it  next  door,  but  he  was  afraid 
his  man  had  made  a  longer  flight  than  that.  And  in- 
deed when  I  returned  to  the  spot,  in  my  clothes,  an 
hour  later,  there  was  no  sign  of  the  police  in  the  road; 
and  I  was  enabled  to  slip  into  the  empty  house  un- 
observed. 

I  got  in  through  an  open  window,  broken  near  the 
hasp,  by  which  the  fugitive  himself  had  first  effected 
an  entry.  In  the  early  morning  light  the  place  looked 
different  and  very  dirty;  and  as  I  entered  the  room 
with  the  burst  door,  I  thought  it  also  very  still.  I 
tore  up  the  loose  boards,  and  uttered  an  exclamation 
which  resounded  horribly  in  the  desolation.  Deedes 
was  gone.  I  poked  my  head  below  the  level  of  the 
floor,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  him  underneath.  As  I 
raised  myself,  however,  a  step  just  sounded  on  the 
threshold,  and  there  he  stood  in  his  socks,  smiling, 
with  a  revolver  in  his  hand. 

For  one  instant  I  doubted  his  intention;  the  next, 
the  weapon  dropped  into  his  pocket,  and  his  smile 
broadened  as  though  he  had  read  my  fear. 

"No  fear,  Beetle,"  said  he;  "it's  not  for  you.  I 
couldn't  be  sure  it  was  you,  that  was  all.  So  you're 
as  good  as  your  word!  I  hardly  expected  you  so 
soon— if  at  all!  " 

"  Do  you  remember  my  word?  "  said  I  meaningly, 
for  his  coolness  irritated  me  beyond  measure.     His 


AFTER   THE    FACT  121 

very  face  and  hands  he  had  contrived  to  cleanse  at 
some  of  the  taps.  He  might  have  been  in  bed  all 
night  and  neglected  nothing  but  his  chin  and  his 
hair.  And  this  was  the  man  of  whom  a  whole  colony 
would  talk  this  morning,  for  whom  a  whole  colony 
would  hunt  all  day. 

"Your  word?"  said  Deedes.  "You  promised  to 
help  me." 

"  I  didn't.  I  said  I'd  see  you  again.  If  I  help  you 
it  will  be  on  very  definite  terms." 

"Half-profits,  eh?  Well,  I'm  agreeable,  and  glad 
you  haven't  forgotten  our  conversation  of  last  night." 

"  And  I'm  glad,"  I  retorted,  "  to  see  you  make  no 
more  bones  about  your  guilt.  Where's  the  money? 
I  want  the  lot." 

"  You're  greedy,  Beetle!  " 

"  Confound  you! "  I  cried,  "  do  you  think  I  want 
to  compromise  myself  by  being  found  here  with  you? 
For  two  pins  I'll  leave  you  to  get  out  of  this  as  best 
you  can.  You  heard  me?  I  want  that  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds.  I  want  it  to  pay  back  into  the  bank. 
Then  I'll  do  what  I  can,  but  not  until." 

I  saw  his  dark  eyes  blazing  as  they  had  blazed  in 
the  candle-light.  He  was  between  me  and  the  door, 
and  I  knew  that  for  any  gain  to  him  I  never  should 
have  left  that  room  alive.  At  least  I  believed  so  then; 
I  believe  it  still;  but  at  that  moment  his  manner 
changed.  He  gave  in  to  me,  and  yet  maintained  a 
coolness  and  a  courage  in  his  peril,  a  dignity  in  his 


122  SOME   rEESONS   UNKNOWN 

defeat,  which  more  than  fascinated  me.  They  made 
me  his  slave.  I  could  have  screened  him  all  day  for 
the  pure  aesthetic  joy  of  contemplating  those  fearless, 
dare-devil  eyes  and  hearing  that  cynical  voice  of  un- 
affected ease.    But  the  money  I  insisted  on  having. 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  said  he;  "  but  I  haven't  got 
it  here.    I  planted  it." 

"  Tell  me  where." 

"  I  can't;  I  could  never  make  it  plain;  it's  not  an 
obvious  place  at  all.  Still  I  accept  your  terms.  Bring 
me  a  change  of  clothes  to-night — I  daren't  face  day- 
light— and  I  give  you  my  word  you  shall  have  the 
stuff  to  take  back  to  the  bank.  I've  made  a  bungle  of 
it;  thought  of  it  for  weeks,  and  bungled  it  after  all! 
It  was  that  Barwon  business  tempted  me.  I  wasn't 
ready,  but  couldn't  resist  the  big  haul.  All  I  want 
now  is  to  get  out  of  it  with  a  whole  skin.  And  by 
Jove!  I  see  the  way.  You  go  to  old  I' Anson  with 
the  money,  and  get  him  to  say  he'll  see  me.  Then 
I'll  tell  him  it  was  all  a  practical  joke — done  for  a  bet 
— anything  you  like — and  if  the  thing  don't  alto- 
gether blow  over,  well,  I'll  get  off  lighter  than  I  de- 
serve. The  old  chap  will  stand  by  me  at  all  events; 
he's  got  his  reasons." 

I  refrained  from  asking  what  they  were.  I  fancied 
I  knew,  and  hoped  I  did  not.  But  Deedes  demanded 
more  than  a  silent  consent  to  his  plans. 

"  Look  here:  are  you  on,  Beetle,  or  are  you  not?  " 

"Can  I  trust  you?" 


A  FT  UK    THE    FACT  123 

"  I  give  you  my  word  upon  it;  till  yesterday  it  was 
the  word  of  an  honest  man." 

"  You  want  a  rig-out  as  different  as  possible  from 
what  you  have  on?  " 

"  Yes,  and  some  whiskers  or  something  if  you  can 
possibly  get  hold  of  any.  Your  friends  are  great  on 
theatricals.    Ask  to  look  at  their  props." 

"  You'll  pay  back  every  penny,  and  plead  a  practi- 
cal joke?" 

"  My  dear  chap,  it's  my  only  chance.  I  see  no  other 
way  out  of  it,  Beetle.  I'm  fairly  cornered;  only  help 
me  to  pay  back  before  I'm  caught,  and  at  least  I'll  get 
off  light." 

"  Very  well,"  said  I.  "  On  those  conditions  I  will 
help  you.    Where  were  you  when  I  came  in?  " 

"  In  the  cellar;  it's  safer  and  also  more  comfortable 
than  under  the  floor." 

"  Then  I  advise  you  to  go  back  there,  for  I'm  off. 
If  I'm  found  here  we  shall  be  run  in  together." 

He  detained  me,  however,  a  moment  more.  It  was 
to  put  a  letter  in  my  hand,  a  stout  missive  addressed 
in  pencil  to  myself. 

"You  see  I've  been  busy  while  you  were  gone," 
he  said,  in  a  tone  quite  shy  for  him.  "  Read  that  after 
your  breakfast.  It  may  make  you  think  less  ill  of  me. 
And,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  deliver  the  enclosures!  " 

I  undertook  to  do  so;  my  interest,  however,  was 
as  yet  confined  to  the  outer  envelope,  a  clean  piece  of 
stationery,  never  used  before. 


124  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  I,  "you  have  come  pre- 
pared.   No  doubt  you  have  provisions  too?  " 

Deedes  produced  a  packet  and  a  flask.  "  Sand- 
wiches and  whisky,"  said  he,  "  in  case  of  need!  " 

I  looked  hard  at  him;  it  may  have  been  my  imag- 
ination, but  for  once  I  thought  he  changed  colour. 

"Deedes,"  said  I,  "you're  a  cold-blooded,  calcu- 
lating villain;  but  I  confess  I  can't  help  admiring 
you." 

"  And  trusting  me  about  to-night?  "  he  added,  with 
some  little  anxiety. 

"I  wouldn't  trust  you  a  bit,"  I  replied,  "if  it 
weren't  to  your  own  interest  to  do  everything  you've 
said  you'll  do.  Luckily  it  is.  There's  a  hue  and  cry 
for  you  in  this  town.  Every  hole  and  corner  will 
be  watched  but  the  bank.  You  can't  hope  to  get  away; 
and  by  far  your  wisest  plan  is  the  one  you've  hit  upon, 
to  return  the  money  and  throw  yourself  on  your  man- 
ager's mercy." 

"  It  is,"  he  answered,  with  his  foot  upon  the  cellar 
stairs;  "  and  you  bet  old  FAnson  won't  make  it  harder 
than  necessary  for  me.  It's  a  clever  idea.  I  should 
never  have  thought  of  it  but  for  you.  Old  man,  I'm 
grateful;  it's  more  than  I  deserve!  " 

And  I  left  him  with  my  hand  aching  from  a  grip 
as  warm  as  that  of  any  honest  man;  and  what  was 
stranger  yet,  the  incredible  impression  of  a  catch  in 
my  villain's  voice.  Here,  however,  I  felt  I  must  be 
mistaken,  but  my  thoughts  were  speedily  distracted 


AFTER   THE    FACT  125 

from  the  anomaly.  I  had  a  milkman  to  dodge  as 
I  made  my  escape  from  the  garden  of  the  empty 
house.  And  half-way  down  the  road  I  met  none 
other  than  the  poor  discomfited  sergeant  of  the  night. 

"  Been  having  another  look  at  the  house,"  said  I, 
with  the  frankness  that  disarms  suspicion. 

"  See  anything  fresh?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  You  wouldn't.  I  don't  believe  the  beggar  was  in 
the  house  two  minutes.  Still  I  thought  I'd  like  to 
have  a  squint  myself  by  daylight;  and  there'll  be  lit- 
tle damages  to  repair  where  we  come  in.  So  long, 
mister;  you  done  your  best;  it  wasn't  your  fault." 

He  was  gone.  I  looked  after  him  with  my  heart 
in  my  mouth.  I  watched  him  to  the  gate.  Would  he 
come  forth  alone — or  alive?  I  saw  the  last  of  the 
sergeant — and  fled. 


Ill 


I  cannot  pretend  to  describe  my  feelings  of  the  next 
few  hours;  nor  would  the  result  be  very  edifying  even 
if  I  succeeded  in  any  such  attempt.  I  trembled  for 
the  criminal's  security,  I  quaked  for  the  sergeant's 
life,  but  most  of  all  I  quaked  and  trembled  for  my 
own  skin  and  my  own  peace  of  mind.  If  the  sergeant 
captured  Deedes,  my  flagrant  complicity  must  inevi- 
tably leak  out,  and  I  too  should  have  to  stand  my  trial 
as  accessory  after  the  fact.     If,  on  the  other  hand, 


126  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

Deedes  murdered  the  sergeant,  and  himself  escaped, 
the  guilt  of  blood  would  gnaw  my  soul  for  ever.  Thus 
I  tossed  between  a  material  Scylla  and  a  spiritual 
Charybdis,  in  the  trough  of  my  ignoble  terrors.  Every 
footstep  in  the  gravel  was  that  of  some  "  stern-faced 
man  "  come  to  lead  me  thence  "  with  gyves  upon  my 
wrists."  Every  cry  from  the  street  proclaimed  the 
sergeant's  murder  in  the  empty  house. 

It  was  impossible  to  conceal  my  condition  from 
my  friends.  With  that  partial  and  misleading  can- 
dour, therefore,  at  which  I  was  becoming  so  vile  an 
adept,  I  told  them  of  my  recognition  of  the  man 
whose  name  was  now  in  every  mouth;  of  our  mid- 
night conversation  in  my  room;  of  the  police-whistle, 
and  my  subsequent  adventures  in  the  constables'  com- 
pany. There  I  stopped;  and  the  tale  gained  me  a 
kudos,  and  exposed  me  to  a  fusillade  of  questions, 
which  were  by  no  means  the  lightest  punishments  of 
that  detestable  day.  Again  and  again  I  felt  certain 
I  had  betrayed  the  guilty  knowledge  that  lay  so  heavy 
on  my  heart.  I  was  quite  convinced  of  it  about  eleven 
in  the  forenoon,  when  my  host  came  among  us  per- 
spiring from  a  walk. 

"I've  just  been  down  to  the  police-station,"  said 
he,  "  but  they  haven't  got  him  yet.  The  sergeant  tells 
me " 

"  Which  sergeant?  "  I  shouted. 

"  The  man  you  were  with  last  night.  He  hae 
been  speaking  about  you,  Mr.  Bower — speaking  very 


AFTER   THE   FACT  127 

highly  of  your  behaviour  last  night.  Nor  was  he 
the  only  one;  it's  all  over  the  town — Girls,  we  have 
all  woke  up  famous  for  having  such  a  hero  in  our 
house! " 

Famous!  a  hero!  I  thought  of  the  names  which 
might  justly  replace  those  words  any  moment.  And 
in  a  sudden  irresistible  panic  I  fled  the  room;  my 
flight  being  attributed  (I  afterwards  discovered)  to 
my  "  charming  English  modesty,"  with  odious  com- 
parisons which  I  need  not  add. 

Before  this  the  young  ladies  of  the  house  had  been 
regaling  me  with  a  good  many  facts,  and  perhaps 
a  little  unintentional  fiction,  concerning  the  Geelong 
branch  of  Mr.  Deedes's  colonial  career.  It  was  a  rec- 
ord highly  characteristic  of  the  Deedes  who  had  been 
so  popular  and  so  infamous  at  school.  He  had  won 
every  tournament  at  the  tennis-courts;  he  danced  bet- 
ter than  any  man  in  Geelong.  He  had  proposed  to  a 
rich  Melbourne  widow  twice  his  age;  had  broken 
many  hearts,  including  that  of  the  blue-eyed  daughter 
of  the  bank;  and  been  seen  at  one  dance,  "well,  in 
a  state  which  made  it  impossible  for  us  to  know  him 
any  more."  I  had  gathered  from  Deedes  that  my 
friends  were  none  of  his;  now  I  was  in  possession  of 
the  cause;  but  the  item  affecting  the  Miss  F  Anson 
whose  face  I  had  just  seen  the  day  before,  and  yet 
remembered  vividly,  was  the  item  that  focused  my  in- 
terest. I  asked  what  sort  of  a  girl  she  was.  The  ac- 
count I  received  was  not  a  little  critical,  yet  reason- 


128  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

ably  charitable  save  on  the  part  of  one  young  lady  who 
said  nothing  at  all.  She  it  was  also  who  had  said 
least  against  Deedes  himself;  and  of  this  one  I  thought 
when  in  my  panic  I  had  broken  loose  from  the  bevy 
and  fled  to  the  farthest  and  most  obscure  corner  of  the 
kitchen-garden.  Was  she  also  in  love  with  the  at- 
tractive scamp?  Could  that  Miss  I'Anson  with  the 
blue  eyes  be  in  the  same  helpless  case?  Deedes  had 
hinted  at  the  manager's  well-grounded  goodwill  to- 
wards himself.  Could  there  be,  not  a  secret  but  a  pri- 
vate understanding  between  Deedes  and  the  daughter? 
He  had  given  me  a  letter  and  spoken  of  enclosures 
which  I  had  undertaken  to  deliver.  Did  one  of  them 
contain  words  of  love  for  the  sad  eyes  I  could  not  for- 
get?   And  if  so,  was  I  bound  to  keep  my  promise? 

The  letter  itself  I  had  quite  forgotten  in  the  stress 
of  a  later  anxiety  now  happily  removed.  But  I 
opened  and  read  it  among  the  gooseberries  and  the 
cabbages;  and  was  myself  so  revolted,  alike  by  the 
purport  and  the  tone  of  this  communication,  that  I 
have  no  intention  of  reproducing  it  here.  It  had, 
however,  the  merit  of  brevity;  and  this  was  the  point. 
He  had  been  an  idiot  about  girls  all  his  life.  There 
were  two  at  least  in  Geelong  of  whom  he  wished, 
whatever  happened  to  him,  to  take  a  tender  leave. 
He  had  written  two  notes,  but  had  left  them  un- 
directed, because  it  was  not  fair  that  I  should  know 
the  names.  Would  I  put  the  three-cornered  note 
on  the  ledge  under  the  eaves,  at  the  hack  of  the  pa- 


AFTER   THE   FACT  129 

vilion  at  the  tennis-courts,  and  midway  between  the 
ladies'  and  the  gentlemen's  entrances?  I  should  prob- 
ably be  going  there  that  afternoon  (as  a  matter  of 
fact  I  was  going),  and  it  would  take  no  trouble,  but 
only  a  little  care,  to  do  this  when  nobody  was  near. 
But  he  would  be  immensely  grateful  to  me;  and  still 
more  so  if  I  would  slip  the  square  note  into  the  big- 
gest book  in  a  certain  pew  of  the  church  nearest  the 
Western  Beach.  He  gave  the  number  of  the  pew, 
and  the  exact  bearings  of  the  church,  which  was 
always  open. 

I  pass  over  the  thing  that  incensed  me:  his  taking 
it  so  coolly  for  granted,  before  it  had  been  granted, 
that  I  would  help  him  in  his  abominable  dilemma, 
and  so  connive  in  his  felon}'.  I  had  done  so;  but  had 
I  read  this  letter  in  his  presence,  I  flattered  myself  I 
had  shown  him  a  stiffer  front.  As  it  was,  however, 
these  undirected  billets-doux  did  undoubtedly  recruit 
and  renew  my  interest  in  the  whole  intrigue;  and, 
promise  or  no  promise,  I  should  have  carried  out  the 
rascal's  instructions  to  the  letter.  He  had  counted 
upon  the  inquisitive  side  of  my  character — shall  I  say 
of  human  nature? — and  he  had  counted  not  in  vain. 
It  was  a  stroke  of  genius  on  his  part  to  leave  the  notes 
unaddressed. 

I  looked  at  my  watch.  We  were  still  on  the  right 
side  of  noon.  Going  indoors  for  my  hat,  I  craved  per- 
mission to  run  to  my  rooms  and  change  into  flannels 

before  lunch;  and  Deedes  himself  could  not  have  hit 
9 


130  SOME    PERSONS    UNKNOWN 

upon  a  craftier  pretext.  It  exempted  me  from  escort, 
and  thus  cleared  my  path  to  the  church,  whither  I  pro- 
ceeded without  delay.  The  pew  was  easily  found;  I 
profaned  a  fat  hymn-book  with  the  square  note,  and 
crept  out  like  the  stealthy  creature  I  was  become. 
The  church  had  been  empty  when  I  entered  it.  Com- 
ing out,  however,  I  met  a  man  in  the  porch.  He  was 
a  huge,  sandy-bearded,  rolling  walker,  wearing  a  suit 
of  blue  serge  and  a  straw-hat.  As  we  passed,  I  saw 
his  eye  upon  me;  a  moment  later,  this  caused  me  to 
return  upon  my  tracks,  in  order  to  see  he  did  not  med- 
dle with  Deedes's  note.  I  was  too  late;  I  caught  him 
sidling  awkwardly  from  the  pew,  with  the  little  square 
missive  held  quite  openly  between  his  fingers;  and  I 
awaited  him  in  the  porch  with  sensations  upon  which 
I  need  not  dwell,  beyond  confessing  that  he  appeared 
to  me  to  grow  six  inches  with  every  rolling  stride. 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  said  I,  "  but  you've  taken  some- 
thing that  wasn't  intended  for  you." 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  "  said  he. 

"  It  was  intended  for  a  young  lady." 

The  big  man  looked  down  upon  me  through  nar- 
row eyes. 

"  Exactly,"  said  he.    "  I  am  her  father." 

And  that  was  all;  he  passed  in  front  of  me  with- 
out a  threatening  or  an  insolent  word,  merely  pocket- 
ing the  note  as  he  slouched  down  the  churchyard  path. 
But  I,  as  I  followed,  took  offence  from  every  cubit  of 
his  stature;  and  could  have  hurled  myself  upon  him 


AFTER   THE   FACT  131 

(so  depraved  was  I  already)  had  I  been  more  than  half 
his  size. 

Heaven  knows  how  I  behaved  at  lunch!  Instead 
of  Deedes  and  the  sergeant,  the  big  man  in  the 
church  was  on  my  nerves.  What  would  he  do?  Head 
the  letter,  of  course;  yet  he  had  not  even  opened  it, 
to  my  certain  knowledge,  when  I  lost  sight  of  him. 
Would  he  know  whom  the  letter  was  from?  If  so  (and 
know  he  must),  my  illicit  dealings  with  the  wanted 
man  would  be  equally  plain  to  him;  and  how  would 
this  stranger  deal  with  me?  Who  was  he  at  all?  and 
did  he  know  in  the  least  who  /  was,  or  where  to  lay 
hands  on  me?  Should  I  meet  him  at  the  courts?  I 
began  to  tell  myself  I  did  not  care  either  way;  that  it 
must  all  come  to  light  sooner  or  later  now,  so  the 
sooner  the  better.  But  the  man  never  came  to  the 
courts.  As  the  afternoon  wore  on  without  sight  or 
sign  of  him,  a  little  confidence  returned;  the  evening 
was  at  hand,  and  with  it  my  own  atonement  as  well  as 
that  of  Deedes;  and  there  was  comfort  in  the  thought 
that  at  the  worst  my  false  position  would  come  to  an 
end  within  the  same  twenty-four  hours  which  had 
witnessed  its  assumption. 

But  the  interim  was  itself  charged  with  dramatic 
interests  for  me  personally.  In  the  first  place  there 
was  the  three-cornered  note.  Impelled  by  that  strong- 
est of  all  motives,  curiosity,  and  thus  undeterred  by 
the  fiasco  of  the  first  note,  I  put  the  second  where  I 
had  been  told  to  put  it,  and  that  before  I  had  been 


132  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

five  minutes  on  the  ground.  Then  I  played  a  couple 
of  setts;  but  my  play  was  even  worse  than  usual;  for 
I  had  one  eye  all  the  time  upon  the  gate,  and  it  would 
follow  each  new  arrival  to  the  pavilion,  and  seek  a 
blush  on  each  fair  face  as  it  emerged.  I  saw  nothing 
then  to  arouse  my  suspicions.  Yet  when  I  went  for 
my  coat,  in  less  than  an  hour,  the  three-cornered  note 
was  gone. 

Suspicious  as  I  was,  and,  for  the  time  being,  every 
inch  of  me  a  spy,  I  could  fasten  my  suspicion  upon  no 
one  person.  Every  girl  on  the  ground,  so  far  as  I  could 
hear,  was  talking  of  Deedes  with  the  shocked  fascina- 
tion of  inquisitive  innocence:  it  might  have  been  any 
one  of  them.  All  looked  at  me  as  though  they  knew 
me  for  the  red-handed  accomplice  that  I  was;  and 
those  to  whom  I  was  introduced  tortured  me  unremit- 
tingly with  their  questions.  Never  I  am  sure  was  a 
man  more  visibly  embarrassed;  yet  who  upon  that 
ground  could  plumb  the  actual  depth  of  my  discom- 
fort ?  Only  one  young  lady  refrained  from  adding  to 
it,  and  this  was  Miss  Enid  I' Anson  herself.  The 
name  of  Deedes  never  passed  between  us.  I  fancied 
her  relief  as  great  as  mine. 

We  were  together  some  time,  strolling  about  the 
ground,  picking  up  balls,  and  sitting  on  seats  we  had 
occasionally  to  ourselves.  Miss  Enid's  eyes  appealed 
to  me  more  than  ever.  They  were  dreadfully  sad, 
but  there  was  cause  enough  for  that.  T  only  hoped — 
I  only  boped  the  three-cornered  note  was  not  in  her 


AFTEK   TIIE    FACT  133 

pocket.  Yet  she  had  arrived  early,  and  changed  her 
shoes,  and  never  played  one  sett. 

My  part  in  our  conversation  was  chiefly  wilful  non- 
sense. I  had  conceived  a  laudable  ambition  to  make 
those  blue  eyes  smile.  I  am  ashamed  to  add  that  I 
rattled  on  until  I  had  them  full  of  tears.  Even  then 
I  did  not  adopt  the  usual,  1  believe  the  well-bred 
course  of  ignoring  what  was  no  business  of  mine. 

"  Y^ou  are  in  trouble,"  said  I  bluntly.  "  How  is 
it  at  the  bank?  " 

"  My  father  has  been  summoned  to  Melbourne  by 
the  directors,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice.  "  My 
mother " 

"  Your  mother?  "  I  repeated  presently. 

"  Is  ill  in  bed,"  she  sobbed.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Bower,  it  is 
a  dreadful,  dreadful  trouble!  Y"ou  will  wonder  why  I 
am  here.  I  am  here  for  the  best.  Think  that,  and 
nothing  more." 

But  I  was  not  thinking  of  that  at  all;  a  dumb, 
blind  rage  had  risen  within  me  against  the  author  of 
all  this  mischief;  and  if  beforehand  I  was  set  upon  my 
compact  with  Deedes,  the  tears  of  this  sweet  girl  were 
as  the  seal  and  signature  of  my  determination.  Their 
money  for  his  freedom;  entire  restitution  for  my  risk. 
On  any  other  terms  I  would  not  only  be  no  friend  to 
him,  but  his  relentless  foe. 

Thinking  of  little  else  meanwhile,  and  pleading 
my  sleepless  night  as  an  excuse  alike  for  continued 
silence  and  for  an  early  retreat  to  my  lodging,  I 


134  SOME    PERSONS    UNKNOWN 

found  him,  shortly  after  nine  o'clock,  crouched  in 
the  cellar  of  the  empty  house,  and  evidently  much 
altered  by  his  long  day  in  hiding.  He  said  it  had 
seemed  like  a  week;  and  the  few  minutes,  during 
which  some  fellow  had  been  poking  about  the  place, 
like  a  day.  I  told  him  that  was  the  sergeant.  The 
men  had  not  been  to  mend  the  window.  Deedes 
wished  they  had.  Any  risk,  he  said,  would  have  been 
better  than  the  interminable  waiting  and  the  cease- 
less listening.  But  for  one  little  friend  he  had  found 
he  would  have  made  a  dash  for  it  and  chanced  every- 
thing. And  in  the  light  of  the  candle  I  had  brought 
with  me,  he  showed  me  a  brown  mouse  seated  on  the 
collar  of  his  coat;  but  when  I  pushed  the  candle 
closer,  the  mouse  fled  with  a  scuttle  and  a  squeak. 

"  Ah,  you've  frightened  him,"  said  Deedes;  "  how- 
ever, he's  done  his  part.  It  killed  the  afternoon, 
taming  him;  have  you  ever  tamed  anything,  Beetle? 
I  have,  every  kind  of  animal,  including  women;  but, 
by  George,  I  never  expected  to  see  myself  as  tame  as 
I  am  to-night!  I'm  unmanned.  I  feel  like  the  Pris- 
oner of  Chillon.  I'm  rusted  with  his  vile  repose. 
You  could  lift  me  out  by  the  hair  and  give  me  to  the 
nearest  bobby!  " 

"  Come,"  I  said,  "  there's  no  need  for  that.  Only 
show  me  where  the  money  is,  and  do  as  you've  re- 
solved to  do,  and  it  won't  be  such  a  very  bad  business 
after  all.  I  suppose  you  haven't  weakened  on  what 
we  said  this  morning?  " 


AFTER    THE    FACT  135 

He  laughed  bitterly;  it  wa.<  his  deep  dejection  that 
had  turned  away  my  wrath. 

"  Good  heavens,  no!  Have  you?  Did  you  put  those 
notes  where  I  told  you  to?  Did  you  get  the  whisk- 
ers?" 

"I  have  done  both/'  said  I,  seeing  no  point  in 
mentioning  the  contretemps  at  the  church.  "  Here 
are  the  whiskers;  I  bought  them  at  a  hairdresser's — 
for  theatricals.  And  here's  a  clean  duck  suit  and  a 
helmet  that  I  used  to  wear  at  sea.  Don't  look  askance 
at  them.  I  know  they're  conspicuous.  For  that  very 
reason,  they're  going  to  nip  suspicion  in  the  bud." 

Deedes  considered  a  moment,  and  then  gave  the 
most  genuine  laugh  I  had  heard  from  him  yet. 

"  By  George,  they're  the  very  thing!  "  he  cried,  in 
a  soft  enthusiasm.  "  Lend  me  your  hand,  Beetle,  for 
I'm  as  stiff  as  the  dead." 

Five  minutes  later  he  rustled  and  gleamed  from 
his  chin  to  his  ankles  in  snowy  whites;  blonde  whisk- 
ers wept  from  either  cheek;  then  with  his  penknife 
he  hacked  at  his  moustache  until  his  mouth  showed 
through  and  spoilt  him;  and  with  that  we  were  ready 
to  start.  Our  rendezvous  was  Western  Beach;  our 
only  difficulty,  an  unseen  exit  from  the  house.  We 
had  luck,  however,  on  our  side.  Not  only  did  we 
break  covert  unobserved,  but  we  met  with  no  undue 
scrutiny  in  the  open;  not  a  single  constable  saw  or 
was  seen  of  us.  So  we  gained  the  beach,  deeply  grate- 
ful to  our  proper  stars. 


136  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

"  Now,"  said  Deedes,  "  you  follow  me  along  this 
pier.*' 

"Why?"  said  I,  with  ugly  visions;  and  instinc- 
tively I  stood  in  my  tracks. 

"  Why?  You  see  that  topsail  schooner  away  along 
on  the  left?  Well,  I  haven't  told  you  before,  but 
that's  where  the  swag  is — aboard  the  schooner  Molly- 
liawTc — waiting  for  me!  " 

"  I'm  not  coming,"  said  I  stoutly.  "  You're  a  des- 
perate man,  Deedes.  I  know  you;  none  of  your 
hanky-panky.  Go  you  and  fetch  it.  I  stay  where  I 
am." 

"  My  good  fellow,  it's  far  too  heavy  for  one  to  carry. 
There's  hundreds  and  hundreds  in  gold!  " 

"  Then  bring  your  accomplice.  I'm  not  frightened 
of  you!  "  said  I  fiercely.  "  I  see  a  man  within  a  hun- 
dred yards;  he's  coming  this  way;  I  shall  have  him 
by  to  see  fair-play." 

"  Oh,  call  him  then! "  cried  Deedes,  with  an  oath. 
"  No,"  he  added  with  another,  "  I'll  do  it  for  you. 
Not  to  trust  a  fellow  in  a  mess  like  this!  " 

It  was  a  very  low  cry  that  he  uttered,  but  the  man 
came  up  in  a  moment.  I  was  surprised  that  he  had 
heard  it  at  all,  surprised  also  but  more  puzzled  by  a 
something  familiar  in  his  size  and  gait.  And  yet  not 
until  he  was  up  with  us,  and  shaking  hands  with 
Deedes,  did  I  recognise  my  burly  adversary  of  the 
church  hard  at  hand. 

"  Help!  help!  "  I  cried,  with  sudden  insight. 


AFTEB   THE   FACT  137 

"My  dear  old  chap,  what  nonsense!  "  said  Deedes, 
throwing  an  arm  round  my  neck.  Something  was 
pressed  across  my  mouth — something  moist  and  cool 
like  a  dog's  nose — and  held  there,  as  I  was  held, 
while  sense  and  strength  ebbed  out  together.  Then 
the  masts  and  spars  of  ships  (lew  to  the  stars  in  a 
soundless  explosion;  and  I  knew  no  more. 

IV 

I  awoke  between  clean  sheets  in  a  narrow,  natty 
berth.  I  had  been  stripped  to  the  singlet,  and  yet 
handled  with  evident  kindness.  My  clothes  hung 
tidily  from  a  peg;  they  were  swaying  very  gently  to 
and  fro,  like  the  candlestick  in  its  socket,  and  the 
curtains  of  my  bunk.  I  was  aboard  the  Mollyhawk, 
and  the  Molhjhawlc  was  out  at  sea.  I  bounded  to  the 
iloor,  to  the  port;  it  was  open,  and  I  looked  out  into 
the  alleyway.  They  had  imprisoned  me,  then,  in  a 
deck-house  stateroom.  I  made  no  doubt  the  door  was 
locked,  tried  it,  found  it  unlocked;  had  a  vision  of 
white  napery  and  bright  silver  in  the  saloon;  and 
closed  the  door  more  calmly  than  I  had  opened  it.  I 
realised  that  I  was  in  the  hands  of  a  deliberate,  cool, 
resourceful  rascal;  my  only  weapons,  therefore,  were 
coolness,  deliberation,  and  resource. 

So  I  dressed  myself  with  care,  and  ere  I  was  ready, 
could  smile  at  the  simple  wiles  which  had  ensnared 
me:  the  two  farewell  letters,  of  which  one,  alas!  was 


138  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

evidently  genuine;  the  well-acted  depression  and  the 
air  of  resigned  defeat  at  the  close  of  a  long  day  in 
loathly  hiding.  These  pretences,  so  transparent  now, 
struck  no  shame  to  rny  heart  as  I  recalled  them;  for 
I  knew  that,  were  it  all  to  come  over  again,  I  should 
be  again  deceived.  What  was  must  be  endured;  it  was 
of  no  use  thinking  about  it;  one  must  think  of  what 
might  yet  be  done.  But  where  were  wTe — through  the 
Heads?  By  the  gentle,  joyful  motion  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  tell.  Had  we  shown  our  heels?  And  for  what 
port  in  all  the  world  were  we  bound  ?  As  if  in  answer, 
the  tramp  of  feet  and  the  sound  of  rough  voices  in 
unison  came  to  me  at  that  moment  through  the  open 
pon : 

"  O  where  are  you  going  to,  my  pretty  maid? 

Wa-ay,  Rio ! 
O  where  are  you  going  to,  my  pretty  maid? 

We're  bound  for  Rio  Grande  !  " 

I  had  learnt  and  liked  the  chanty  on  my  voyage 
out  in  the  Glasgow  clipper;  and  half  involuntarily, 
half  out  of  bravado,  I  was  joining  in  the  chorus  when 
I  appeared  on  deck.  I  even  lent  a  hand  at  the  cap- 
stan, as  Deedes  had  done  himself,  and  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  silencing  his  voice  with  the  first  note  of 

my  own: 

"  An'  it's  he-ey,  Rio ! 

Wa-ay,  Rio! 

Sing  fare  you  well, 

You  bonny  young  gell, 

We're  bound  for " 


AFTEK   THE   FACT  139 

'•Belay!''  tried  the  jolly  rich  voice  of  that  great 
villain,  my  churchyard  acquaintance  of  Western 
Beach.  As  our  eyes  met,  he  honoured  me  with  a 
jovial  nod;  then  my  white  duck  suit  came  between 
us,  a  little  creased,  but  spotless  as  on  the  night  before; 
and  Deedes  was  looking  me  up  and  down. 

"  You're  a  cool  hand,  too,"  said  he.  "  Well,  I'm 
blowed!  " 

"  I  am  studying  in  a  cool  school,"  said  I.  "  Deedes, 
I  admire  you;  more  than  ever;  there!  " 

"  That's  very  nice  of  you,  Beetle." 

"  Not  a  bit;  it  won't  prevent  me  from  getting  even 
with  you  the  first  chance  I  see." 

"  You'll  find  that  difficult." 

"  I  shall  stick  at  nothing." 

His  face  darkened.  He  had  shaved  himself  clean 
since  the  night,  and  as  he  showed  me  his  teeth  I 
thought  I  had  never  seen  so  vile  a  mouth.  It  had 
degenerated  dreadfully  since  his  boyhood. 

"Take  care,"  he  snarled;  "you're  being  done 
pretty  well  so  far.  You've  the  second  best  stateroom 
aboard,  and  the  cuddy  tucker's  all  right.  Don't  you 
forget  we've  got  a  hold  and  irons,  and  rats  and  rancid 
pork  as  well! " 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  and  I  walked  to  the  binnacle. 
Next  moment  he  joined  me  there,  dropping  a  hand 
upon  my  shoulder. 

"  East-by-south-a-quarter-east,"  said  he;  "we 
cleared  the  Heads  last  night — bound  for  Rio  Grande, 


140  SOME   TEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

or  something  like  it — and  that  chnnk  on  the  port  bow 
is  Wilson  Promontory.  So  now  yon  know.  And 
look  here,  Beetle,  old  chap,  you've  been  good  to  me; 
1  don't  want  to  be  rough  on  you.  Did  you  really 
think  I  was  going  to  do  as  we  said?  My  good  fellow, 
how  could  you?  See  here,  Beetle:  the  yacht's  a  well- 
known  yacht,  Watson's  a  well-known  yachtsman,  and 
he  was  in  Melbourne  to  divert  suspicion  the  day  I  did 
the  trick.  He  stands  in  for  his  share.  Why  not  stand 
in  yourself?  You've  earned  your  little  bit,  if  any- 
body has! " 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  want  to  be  rough  on  me/' 
said  I  wearily.    "  Have  you  got  it  all  aboard?  " 

"  Have  I  not!    Every  penny-piece!  " 

"  And  who's  Watson?  " 

I  was  at  once  introduced  to  the  marine  monster 
in  blue,  with  the  superfluous  comment,  "  I  believe 
you've  met  before.  Captain  Watson  owns  and  skips 
this  ship,  and  I  skip  and  own  the  money;  I'm  purser, 
so  to  speak,  but  there'll  be  fair  do's  at  the  end  of  the 
voyage.  You'd  much  better  stand  in,  Beetle.  The 
captain  and  I  are  both  quite  clear  on  the  point." 

"  Oh,  so  am  I,"  cried  I  ironically.  "  When  one  of 
you  two  has  knifed  the  other  for  his  share,  I  intend 
sticking  the  one  who's  left!  " 

"  I  consider  that  remark,"  said  the  captain,  colour- 
ing, "  in  the  worst  of  taste;  and  if  you  weren't  a  friend 
of  Mr.  Deedes,  I  should  kick  you  off  my  quarter-deck." 

Mr.  Deedes  looked  thunderous,  but  said  nothing. 


AFTER   THE   FACT  141 

"  Oh,  come,"  said  I,  "  if  we  can't  have  our  joke 
what  can  we  have?  I  admit,  if  there'd  been  any 
truth  in  what  I  said — any  chance  or  possibility  of 
truth — 1  should  have  merited  a  visitation  from  the 
captain's  boots;  but  as  I  was  talking  arrant  nonsense, 
what  did  it  matter?  " 

I  expected  a  blow  for  that,  and  tried  to  look  as 
though  I  did  not,  being  extremely  anxious  to  return 
it  with  effect.  I  was,  in  fact,  the  slave  all  this  time  of 
emotional  cross-currents,  which  made  my  revulsion 
from  these  villains  the  stronger  because  it  wras  not 
continuous.  I  had  more  than  tolerated  them  at  first, 
but  all  at  once  I  found  myself  desiring  hold  and  rats 
and  irons,  rather  than  a  continuance  of  their  society. 
At  this  moment,  however,  the  old  and  evil-looking 
stewrard  was  to  be  seen  carrying  smoking  dishes  to  the 
house;  the  sight  appealed  to  me  in  another  place; 
and  I  will  own  to  having  changed  my  manner  with 
some  abruptness,  and  to  adding  an  apologetic  word  on 
top  of  that. 

"  All  right,"  said  Deedes  savagely.  "  You've  said 
about  enough,  and  in  the  cuddy  I'll  trouble  you  to 
hold  your  tongue  altogether.  The  mate's  asleep  in 
the  other  stateroom — take  care  you  don't  lose  yours! 
Take  jolly  good  care  this  isn't  your  first  and  last  meal 
up  here! " 

After  breakfast  I  smoked  a  pipe  in  the  cross-trees, 
and  looked  in  vain  for  a  passing  funnel:  only  a  few 
insignificant  sails  were  in  sight,  and  those  to  leeward. 


142  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

The  sea  lay  under  me  like  a  great  blue  plate,  the 
schooner  a  white  ant  crawling  in  its  centre.  But  for 
the  swell,  we  might  have  been  in  Corio  Bay.  Should 
I  ever  see  it  again,  I  wondered,  with  the  straight 
streets  sloping  to  its  brink?  And  I  wondered  if 
Deedes  had  the  same  thought,  as  he  leant  over  the 
taffrail  studying  the  wake;  or  had  he  more  pangs  and 
fears  than  he  pretended,  and  were  we  less  safe? 

The  captain  joined  him,  whereupon  Deedes  re- 
treated to  the  house,  with  black  looks  that  were 
blacker  still  a  few  minutes  later  when  he  returned. 
Instead  of  rejoining  the  captain,  he  now  came  aloft  to 
my  cross-trees,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  that  we  were 
to  have  it  out  in  mid-air.  Deedes  passed  me,  however, 
without  a  word,  and  I  saw  a  telescope  sticking  out  of 
his  pocket  as  he  climbed  higher.  I  thought  it  as  well 
to  let  him  have  the  mast  to  himself,  and  left  him 
sweeping  the  horizon  from  near  the  truck. 

Yet  my  own  eyes  were  pretty  good,  and  they  had 
descried  no  sign  of  sail  or  smoke  to  windward.  Why 
then  this  change  in  Deedes?  Thoroughly  puzzled, 
I  reached  the  deck  and  strolled  idly  to  the  house;  and 
the  puzzle  solved  itself  even  as  I  entered  and  saw  who 
was  seated  at  the  table. 

"  Miss  I' Anson!  "  I  fairly  shouted. 

"  Yes — it  is  I.  He  said  I  should  not  see  you.  Do 
go — do  go  before  he  comes!  " 

"Go!"  I  cried.  "Not  see  you!  I  shall  see  you 
and  stay  with  you  until  I'm  dragged  out  by  force. 


AFTEE   THE   FACT  143 

That  is  " — I  added  suddenly — "  unless  you  are  hero 
of  your  own  free  will.    In  that  case " 

"No,  no!"  cried  the  girl.  "By  trickery!  By 
wicked,  heartless,  abominable  lies!  Nothing  else — 
oh,  nothing  else  would  have  brought  me  to  this!  " 

"  Then  we're  in  the  same  boat  with  a  vengeance," 
said  I,  seating  myself  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table. 
"  Tell  me  how  it  happened — and  quickly.  He  has 
talked  already  of  putting  me  in  irons;  he'll  do  it 
after  this." 

"  Oh,  where  am  I  to  begin?  There  is  so  much  to 
tell — but  he  shall  not  do  it! "  vowed  Miss  I' Anson. 
"  He  shall  not  separate  the  only  two  honest  people  in 
the  ship!  Oh,  yes,  it  was  lies,  but  lies  so  clever  and  so 
fiendish!  Let  me  tell  you  everything.  I'll  try  to  be 
quick.  He  has  been  in  the  bank  about  a  year.  You 
know  him  perhaps  better  than  I  do.  They  say  you 
were  at  school  together.  You  must  know  his  good 
points,  Mr.  Bower.  I  mean  the  points  that  would  at- 
tract a  girl.  They  attracted  me.  I  made  a  fool  of  my- 
self. You  must  have  heard  about  it  in  Geelong. 
Well,  it's  quite  true;  but  it  wasn't  yesterday,  or  the 
day  before,  or  last  week.  It  was  in  the  very  beginning. 
I  got  over  it  long  ago.  But  he  has  always  fascinated 
me.  You  know  him — you  can  understand?  Well, 
when  the  bank  was  robbed  I  knew  he  had  done  it; 
I  can't  tell  you  how  I  knew,  but  know  I  did.  His  voice 
was  not  real.  I  have  been  made  love  to  in  that  voice — 
there!    Well,  I  went  to  his  rooms.    He  lunched  there 


144  SOME   PERSONS  UNKNOWN 

every  day.  I  saw  his  landlady.  He  had  come  in  to 
lunch  as  usual,  and  said  he  would  ring  when  he 
wanted  his  pudding.  He  did  ring,  but  was  longer 
than  usual  in  ringing;  that  was  all.  His  room  was 
the  back-room  of  the  house  on  the  ground-floor;  the 
landlady  lives  in  front.  Quite  a  short  time  ago  it  was 
the  other  way  about,  and  he  suggested  the  alteration. 
He  also  made  her  promise  to  keep  the  blinds  down 
in  the  kitchen,  and  the  windows  shut,  to  keep  out  the 
flies  and  the  sun  in  the  heat  of  the  day;  he  could 
make  her  do  what  he  liked.  Now  listen.  The  bank 
garden  adjoins  his  landlady's  garden.  I  found  soil 
on  his  window-sill,  soil  on  the  woodwork.  This  was 
in  the  afternoon  when  the  excitement  was  at  its 
height;  he  was  in  the  bank.  I  came  away,  making 
the  woman  promise  not  to  say  a  word;  but  she  broke 
her  promise  that  night,  and  that  was  what  started  the 
hue  and  cry.  Meanwhile  I  wrote  him  a  note  telling 
him  I  knew  all,  refusing  to  see  him,  but  solemnly 
undertaking  that  if  he  would  put  a  note  where  he  had 
once  put  other  notes  (because  my  mother  couldn't  en- 
dure him),  and  say  in  it  where  the  money  was,  nobody 
should  ever  know  from  me  that  he  had  touched  it. 
Remember,  Mr.  Bower,  I  was  once  fond  of  him;  nay, 
you  did  much  as  I  did  yourself;  you  will  understand. 
He  has  told  me  all  that  has  passed  between  you;  how 
he  gave  you  the  note  to  put  in  the  tennis  pavilion. 
Arid  what  do  you  think  he  said  in  it?  That  if  I  would 
come  to  the  beach  at  ten  last  night  he  would  tell  me 


AFTEK   THE   FACT  145 

where  the  money  was.  He  did  tell  me.  He  told  me  it 
was  sunk  among  the  rocks  at  QueensclifL  He  told 
me  he  was  escaping  in  the  Mollyhawk — this  vessel — 
hut  he  would  land  me  at  Queenscliff,  and  show  me 
where  the  place  was;  because  he  meant  to  take  the 
gold,  but  the  notes  he  dare  not.  It  was  the  notes  that 
mattered  to  my  father  and  the  bank.  They  were 
nine-tenths  of  the  stolen  sum.  Oh,  I  know  I  was 
a  fool  to  believe  or  listen  to  a  word  he  said!  I 
should  have  had  him  put  in  prison  at  the  first. 
But  I  am  punished  as  I  deserve;  they  will  never 
forgive  me  at  home;  it  will  break  their  hearts;  they 
will  never  get  over  it.  And  here  I  am — and  here 
lam!" 

She  broke  down,  breathless,  and  I  glanced  towards 
the  door.  Deedes  stood  there  in  my  ducks,  his  face 
the  blacker  by  contrast;  he  glared  at  me,  and  his  evil 
mouth  worked  spasmodically;  but  now  more  than 
ever  I  seemed  to  discern  some  foreign  trouble  in  his 
blazing  eyes;  and  instead  of  ordering  me  out  of  the 
deck-house,  he  slammed  the  door  upon  us  both.  Enid 
I' Anson  whipped  her  face  from  her  hands. 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  I.  "  He's  seen  us,  and  he 
doesn't  care.  There's  something  else  upon  his  nerves; 
when  thieves  fall  out,  you  know — perhaps  they've 
done  so  already.  I  feel  hopeful;  it's  bound  to  come. 
There's  just  one  thing  I  don't  size  down.  I  know  why 
1  am  here:  he  wouldn't  kill  me,  and  alive  on  land  I'd 
never  have  let  him  clear  the  Heads.  That's  why  I'm 
10 


146  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

here;  but  why  are  you?  You  didn't  know  about  the 
schooner?  " 

"  No,  but — how  can  I  tell  you!  " 

"  Don't,"  said  I,  for  she  was  clearly  in  a  new  dis- 
tress. 

"I  must!  He  wants  to  marry  me — so  he  says. 
He  never  wanted  before.  But  I  did  not  betray  him. 
I  have  saved  him — he  will  have  it  so — so  I  am  to  be 
his  wife!  Oh,  Mr.  Bower,  it  is  the  worst  insult  of  all! 
I  told  him  so,  just  before  you  came  in." 

"  Then  that  was  the  trouble,"  said  I.  "  It  rather 
disappoints  me;  I  am  counting  on  a  row  between 
those  two.  But  it  will  come.  Cheer  up,  Miss  I'Anson; 
let  him  leave  me  out  of  irons  twenty-four  hours 
longer,  and  I'll  play  a  hand  myself — for  you  and  the 
bank! " 

And  so  I  talked,  trying  with  all  my  might  to  com- 
fort the  poor  child  in  her  extremity.  She  was  little 
more;  nineteen,  she  told  me.  There  were  elder  sisters 
married,  and  a  brother  gone  home  to  Cambridge.  He 
would  have  to  leave  there  now;  and  who  would  pay 
his  passage  back  to  Melbourne?  The  robbery  seemed 
to  spell  certain  ruin  to  the  I'Ansons,  at  all  events  in 
their  own  belief;  but  now  at  least  we  knew  who  had 
drawn  the  cartridges  from  the  bank  revolver;  and  I 
fancy  they  all  exaggerated  the  element  of  personal 
responsibility. 

I  did  my  best  to  reassure  Miss  Enid  on  the 
point;  nor  did  I  leave  a  comfortable  word  unsaid 


AFTER    THE    FACT  147 

that  I  could  hit  upon.  So  noon,  and  afternoon, 
found  us  talking  still  across  the  cuddy  table.  Lunch- 
eon in  this  pirate's  craft  was  evidently  a  movable 
feast,  to-day  indefinitely  postponed.  Enid  looked  at 
her  watch  and  found  it  after  three  o'clock;  we  had 
thought  it  one;  but  about  half-past  three  the  house 
door  was  flung  open  and  in  strode  Deedes.  He  did 
not  look  at  us,  but  snatched  a  repeating-rifle  out  of  a 
locker,  and  would  have  gone  without  a  word  but  for 
Enid  I'Anson. 

The  girl  was  terrified.  "  What  are  you  going  to 
do  with  it?"  she  cried;  and  he  paused  in  the  door- 
way, filling  it  with  his  broad  shoulders,  so  that  I  could 
see  nothing  but  blue  sky  without. 

"  There's  a  big  bird  in  our  wake — another  molly- 
hawk!  "  said  Deedes,  as  I  thought  with  a  lighter  look. 
"  I'm  going  to  have  pots  at  it.    That's  all." 

"  Cruel  always,"  said  the  girl,  as  we  heard  shot 
after  shot  in  quick  succession.  But  I  went  to  the 
door,  and  then  turned  back  as  if  with  an  altered  mind. 
I  had  found  it  locked. 

Ere  I  could  regain  my  seat,  a  new  thing  happened. 
A  bullet  came  clean  through  the  deck-house,  passed 
over  Enid's  head,  and  must  have  abode  in  my  brain 
had  I  sat  a  minute  longer  where  I  had  been  sitting 
for  hours. 

"Coward!"  gasped  the  girl;  but  only  with  her 
word  came  the  report. 

"  A  chase!  "  I  shouted.    "  Down  on  the  floor  with 


148  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

you — flat  down — that  was  a  Government  bullet!  " 
And  on  the  cabin  floor  we  crouched. 

Voices  hailing  us  were  now  plainly  audible.  But 
Deedes  vouchsafed  no  answer,  save  with  his  Win- 
chester, and  from  the  spitting  of  a  revolver  (doubt- 
less handled  by  the  captain)  I  gathered  we  were  at 
pretty  close  quarters.  So  the  chase  had  been  going 
on  for  hours;  that  was  why  we  two  in  the  house  had 
been  left  undisturbed  and  dinnerless;  but  what 
amazed  me  most  was  the  evident  good  discipline  on 
deck.  We  must  stand  some  chance;  my  soul  sickened 
at  the  thought.  It  must  be  canvas  that  was  after  us, 
not  steam;  but  I  could  not  look  out  to  see;  my  brave 
comrade  would  only  remain  where  she  was  on  con- 
dition I  did  the  same.  Lastly,  every  man  aboard  the 
schooner,  myself  excepted,  must  centre  his  hopes, 
perhaps  his  designs,  upon  the  nineteen  thousand  and 
odd  pounds  that  lay  snug  somewhere  between  her 
keelson  and  her  trucks. 

I  have  done  livelier  things  than  lie  there  listening 
to  the  shots;  many  more  had  struck  the  house,  and 
even  where  we  lay  there  was  no  superfluous  safety; 
but  my  comrade  bore  herself  throughout  with  incredi- 
ble spirit,  and  made  besides  a  sweet,  strange  picture, 
there  on  that  matted  floor.  The  sun  streamed  in 
through  the  skylight,  and  the  schooner's  motion  was 
such  that  the  girl's  face  was  now  bathed  in  the  rays 
and  anon  lighted  only  by  its  own  radiance.  T  did  not 
know  how  I  liked  it  best;  nor  do  I  to  this  day,  though  I 


AFTER   THE    FACT  149 

see  her  always  as  I  saw  her  then.  Her  blue  eyes  bent 
on  mine  the  kind  of  look  which  would  give  one  cour- 
age in  one's  last  hour.    Her  very  hand  was  cool. 

The  firing  on  both  sides  continued  intermittently; 
but  once  we  heard  a  heavy  thud  upon  our  own  deck, 
and  the  revolver  spat  no  more. 

"  That's  not  Deedes,"  said  I,  shaking  my  head;  "  I 
only  wish  it  was!  " 

"Don't  say  that/'  my  comrade  answered;  "it 
would  be  too  dreadful!  He  is  not  fit  to  die;  he  has 
fine  qualities — you  know  it  yourself — he  could  play 
a  man's  part  yet  in  the  world." 

Even  as  she  spoke  the  door  was  unlocked,  flung 
open,  and  Deedes  himself  stood  looking  down  upon 
us  across  his  folded  arms.  I  daresay  we  cut  an  ig- 
nominious figure  enough,  crouching  there  upon  the 
cabin  floor.  Deedes  looked  very  sick  and  pale,  but 
the  sight  of  us  elicited  a  sardonic  smile. 

"  Get  up,"  said  he.  "  There  wTill  be  no  more  fight- 
ing. Watson's  knocked  out.  I've  struck  my  flag. 
Your  father  will  be  aboard  in  a  minute,  Enid." 

"  My  father! " 

"  Yes,"  said  Deedes,  leaning  back  against  a  bulk- 
head, with  his  arms  still  folded.  "  It's  a  pilot's  cutter 
— the  first  thing  handy,  I  suppose — with  the  police 
and  your  father  aboard  her.  One  word  before  he 
comes.  Once  you'd  have  come  fast  enough  to  my 
arms.    Enid — I'm  done  for — come  to  them  now!  " 

He  unfolded  and  flung  them  wide  as  he  spoke; 


150  SOME   PEHSONS   UNKNOWN 

a  great  look  lit  his  face,  half  mocking,  half  sublime, 
arid  down  my  duck  jacket,  where  his  arms  had  been, 
a  dark  stream  trickled  to  the  deck.  Before  I  could 
get  to  him  he  fell  in  a  white  heap  under  our  eyes. 

3p  «|C  5JC  ?|C  3|C  *j*  »j»  5|I 

Deedes  was  dead.  Watson  was  dying.  Two  con- 
stables in  the  cutter  were  badly  hit;  and  with  their 
ghastly  burden  the  little  ships  tacked  home  in  con- 
sort to  Port  Philip  Heads. 

It  was  midnight  when  we  saw  the  lights.  The 
bank-manager  and  I  stood  together  on  the  cutter's 
deck,  he  with  a  brace  of  heavy  bags  between  his  heels. 
His  daughter  was  down  below,  but  the  thought  of 
her  troubled  him  still.  As  he  said,  the  money  was 
the  bank's,  and  it  was  safe;  but  his  daughter  was  his 
own,  and  this  scandal  would  attach  forever  to  her 
name.  I  denied  it  hotly,  but  the  old  man  would  have 
it  so. 

"Don't  tell  me,"  he  grumbled.  "I  know  the 
world,  and  Enid  will  go  ashore  with  something  un- 
pleasantly like  a  slur  upon  her  name." 

"  Then  it  won't  be  for  long,"  I  at  last  retorted. 
'  We  meant  it  to  keep  until  we  got  there;  but  with 
your  permission,  sir,  your  daughter  and  I  shall  go 
ashore  engaged." 


THE   VOICE   OF   GUNBAR 


« 


"  H'sh!    Did  you  hear  a  coo-ee? 

I  shook  my  head  in  some  surprise.  My  host  seemed 
a  good  fellow;  but  hitherto  he  had  proved  an  ex- 
tremely poor  companion,  and  for  five  minutes,  I  sup- 
pose, neither  of  us  had  said  a  word.  My  eyes  had 
fallen  from  the  new  well,  with  its  pump  and  white 
palings  shining  like  ivory  under  the  full  moon,  to  our 
two  shadows  skewered  through  and  through  by  those 
of  the  iron  hurdles  against  which  we  were  leaning. 
These  hurdles  enclosed  and  protected  a  Moreton  Bay 
fig,  which  had  been  planted  where  the  lid  of  the  old 
well  used  to  lie,  so  I  had  just  been  told;  and  I  had  said 
I  wondered  why  one  well  should  have  been  filled  in 
and  another  sunk  so  very  near  the  same  place,  and  get- 
ting no  answer  I  had  gone  on  wondering  for  those  five 
minutes.  So  if  there  had  been  any  sound  beyond  the 
croaking  of  the  crickets  (which  you  get  to  notice  about 
as  much  as  the  tick  of  a  clock),  I  felt  certain  that  I 
must  have  heard  it  too.  I,  however,  was  a  very  new 
chum,  whereas  Warburton  of  Gunbar  was  a  ten-year 
bushman,  whose  ear  might  well  be  quicker  than  mine 
to  catch  the  noises  of  the  wilderness;   and  when  I 

151 


152  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

raised  my  eyes  inquisitively  there  was  a  light  in  his 
that  made  me  uneasy. 

"  Hear  it  now?  "  he  said  quietly,  and  with  a  smile, 
as  a  seaman  points  out  sails  invisible  to  the  land-lub- 
ber.   "  I  do — plainly/' 

"  I  don't,"  I  candidly  replied.  "  But  if  it's  some 
poor  devil  lost  in  the  mallee,  you'll  be  turning  out  to 
look  for  him,  and  I'll  lend  you  a  hand." 

His  homestead,  you  see,  was  in  the  heart  of  the 
mallee,  and  on  the  edge  of  a  ten-mile  block  which  was 
one  tangle  of  mallee  and  porcupine  scrub  from  fence 
to  fence.  I  shuddered  to  think  of  anyone  being 
bushed  in  that  stuff,  for  away  down  in  Warburton's 
eyes  there  was  a  horror  that  had  gone  like  a  bullet  to 
my  nerves.  I  was  therefore  the  more  surprised  at  the 
dry  laugh  with  which  he  answered: 

"  You'd  better  stop  where  you  are." 

I  could  not  understand  the  man.  He  was  not  only 
the  manager  of  Gunbar,  but  overseer  and  store-keeper 
as  well,  an  unmarried  man  and  a  solitary.  One's  first 
impression  of  him  was  that  his  lonely  life  and  depress- 
ing surroundin  ^s  had  sadly  affected  his  whole  nature. 
He  had  looked  askance  at  me  when  I  rode  up  to  the 
place,  making  me  fancy  I  had  at  last  found  the  sta- 
tion where  an  uninvited  guest  was  also  unwelcome. 
After  that  preliminary  scrutiny,  however,  his  manner 
had  warmed  somewhat.  He  asked  me  several  ques- 
tions concerning  the  old  country  from  which  we  both 
came;  and  I  remember  liking  him  for  putting  on  a 


THE  VOICE  OF  GUNBAR  153 

black  coat  for  supper,  which  struck  me  as  a  charming 
conceit  in  that  benighted  spot,  and  not  a  woman  with- 
in twenty-five  miles  of  us.  His  latest  eccentricity 
pleased  me  less.  Either  he  was  chaffing  me,  and  he 
had  heard  nothing  (  hut  his  sombre  manner  made  that 
incredible),  or  he  was  prepared  to  let  a  fellow-creature 
perish  fearfully  without  an  attempt  at  rescue.  I  was 
thankful  when  he  explained  himself. 

"  I  know  who  it  is,  you  see,"  he  said  presently,  strik- 
ing a  match  on  the  hurdle  and  re-lighting  his  pipe. 
"  It's  all  right." 

"But  who  is  it?"  said  I;  for  that  would  not  do 
for  me. 

"  It's  Mad  Trevor,"  he  returned  gravely.  "  Come 
now! "  he  added,  looking  me  in  the  face  much  as  he 
had  done  before  inviting  me  to  dismount;  "  do  you 
mean  to  say  you  have  got  as  far  as  this  and  never  heard 
the  yarn  of  Mad  Trevor  of  Gunbar?  " 

I  made  it  clear  that  I  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it; 
and  in  the  end  he  told  me  the  story  as  we  stood  in  the 
station  yard,  and  lounged  against  those  iron  hurdles 
right  under  the  great  round  moon. 

"  My  lad,  I  was  as  young  as  you  are  when  I  came  to 
this  place;  but  that's  very  near  ten  years  ago,  and  ten 
years  take  some  time  in  the  mallee  scrub.  Yes,  I 
know  I  look  older  than  that;  but  this  country  would 
age  anybody,  even  if  nothing  happened  to  start  your 
white  hairs  before  their  time.  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
what  did  happen  within  my  first  two  months  on  this 


154  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

station.  Mad  Trevor  was  manager  then,  and  he  and  I 
were  to  run  the  show  between  us  as  soon  as  I  knew 
my  business.  To  learn  it,  I  used  to  run  up  the  horses 
at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  run  'em  out  again 
last  thing  at  night,  for  the  drought  had  jolly  nearly 
dried  us  up,  and  in  the  yard  yonder  we  had  to  give 
every  horse  his  nose-bag  of  chaff  before  turning  him 
out.  Well,  between  sparrow-chirp  and  bedtime  I  was 
either  mustering  or  boundary-riding,  or  weighing  out 
rations  in  the  store,  or  taking  them  to  the  huts  in  the 
spring-cart,  or  making  up  the  books,  or  sweeping  out 
my  store,  or  cleaning  up  the  harness;  but  I  never  had 
ten  minutes  to  myself,  for  old  Trevor  believed  in  mak- 
ing me  work  all  the  harder  because  I  was  only  to  get 
my  tucker  for  it  till  I  knew  the  ropes.  And  for  my 
part  I'm  bound  to  say  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  life 
in  those  days,  as  I  daresay  you  do  now.  The  rougher 
the  job,  the  readier  was  I  to  tackle  it.  So  I  think  the 
boss  was  getting  to  like  me,  and  I  know  I  liked  him; 
but  for  all  that,  he  was  mad,  as  I  soon  found  out  from 
the  men,  who  had  christened  him  Mad  Trevor. 

"  It  appeared  that  he  had  come  to  Gunbar  some 
three  or  four  years  before  me,  with  his  young  wife  and 
their  baby  girl,  Mona,  who  was  five  years  old  when 
first  I  saw  her — riding  across  this  very  yard  on  her 
father's  shoulders.  Ay,  and  I  can  see  her  now,  with 
her  yellow  head  of  hair  and  her  splendid  little  legs  and 
arms!  She  was  forever  on  Mad  Trevor's  back,  or  in 
his  arms,  or  on  his  knee,  or  at  his  side  in  the  buggy, 


THE   VOICE  OP  GUNBAB  l-r>5 

or  even  astride  in  front  of  him  on  the  saddle-bow; 
and  her  father's  face  beaming  over  her  shoulder,  and 
his  great  beard  tickling  her  cheeks,  and  he  watching 
her  all  the  time  with  the  tenderest  love  that  ever  1 
saw  in  human  eyes.  For,  you  see,  the  wife  had  died 
here  on  Gunbar,  and  lay  buried  in  the  little  cemetery 
we  have  behind  the  stock-yards;  but  she  was  going  to 
live  again  in  little  Mona;  and  Trevor  knew  that,  and 
was  just  waiting. 

"But  his  trouble  had  driven  him  quite  mad;  for 
often  I  have  been  wakened  when  I'd  just  dropped 
off,  by  hearing  him  come  down  the  verandah  trailing 
his  blanket  after  him;  and  away  he  was  gone  to 
camp  all  night  on  his  wife's  grave.  The  men  used  to 
hear  him  talking  to  her  up  there;  it  would  have  made 
your  heart  bleed  for  him,  he  was  such  a  rough-and- 
ready  customer  with  all  of  us  .but  the  child. 

"  Well,  one  day  we  were  out  on  the  run  together,  he 
and  I  in  the  buggy.  It  was  to  fix  a  new  rope  round 
the  drum  of  the  twelve-mile  whim — at  the  far  side 
of  the  mallee,  that  is — and  I  recollect  he  showed  me 
how  it  was  done  that  day  so  that  I  never  needed  show- 
ing again,  and  it  was  because  I  was  quickish  at  picking 
up  such  things  that  he  liked  me.  But  a  brute  of  a 
dust-storm  came  on  just  as  we  finished,  and  we  had 
to  wait  at  the  whim-driver's  hut  till  it  was  over;  and 
that  was  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  him  mention  little 
Mona's  name  behind  her  back.  For  the  whim-driver 
had  a  fine  coloured  print,  from  some  Christmas  num- 


156  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

ber,  stuck  up  over  his  bunk,  and  it  was  a  treat  to  hear 
the  poor  boss  beg  it  from  him  to  bring  home  to  the 
little  one.  It  was  as  though  the  bare  thought  of  the 
kid  made  a  difference  in  the  look  of  his  eye  and  the 
tone  of  his  voice;  for  he  had  been  swearing  at  the 
rope  and  us  in  his  best  style;  but  he  never  swore  once 
on  the  drive  back,  he  only  made  me  hold  the  rolled 
print  in  my  hand  the  whole  time;  and  I  had  to  take 
tremendous  care  of  it,  and  hand  it  over  to  him  the 
moment  we  pulled  up  in  the  yard  here,  so  that  he 
might  give  it  to  little  Mona  first  thing.  But  that  was 
not  to  be:  the  child  was  lost.  She  had  been  missing 
since  the  time  of  the  dust-storm,  which  was  mid-day, 
and  all  hands  but  the  cook  who  told  us,  and  the  nurse 
who  was  responsible  and  beside  herself,  were  out 
searching  for  her  already. 

"  The  boss  took  the  news  without  immediately  get- 
ting down  from  the  buggy,  and  with  none  of  the  blus- 
ter which  he  usually  had  ready  for  the  least  thing. 
But  his  face  was  all  hair  and  freckles,  and  I  recollect 
how  the  freckles  stood  out  when  he  turned  to  speak  to 
me;  and  to  this  day  I  can  feel  the  pinch  of  his  fingers 
on  the  fleshy  part  of  my  arm. 

"  { Harry,'  he  says,  in  a  kind  of  whisper,  c  you  must 
turn  these  two  out,  and  then  run  up  Blucher  and  Well- 
ington; and  you  must  drive  that  nurse  girl  away  from 
this,  Harry — you  must  take  her  away  this  very  night. 
For  if  my  child  is  dead,  I'll  kill  her  too — by  God,  but 
I  will! ' 


THE   VOICE  OF  GUXBAR  157 

"  But  the  nurse  had  seen  us  drive  up,  and  as  Mad 
Trevor  crossed  the  yard  heavily,  like  a  dazed  man, 
she  ran  out  from  the  verandah  and  threw  herself  at 
his  knees,  sobbing  her  heart  out.  What  he  said  to  her 
first  I  couldn't  catch:  I  only  know  that  in  another 
moment  he  was  crying  like  a  child  himself.  No  won- 
der either,  when  the  mallee  is  the  worst  kind  of  scrub 
to  get  lost  in,  and  there  had  been  enough  dust  to  clean 
out  deeper  tracks  than  a  child's,  and  when  it  was  grow- 
ing late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  poor  little  thing  out 
for  hours  already.  But  it  was  the  most  pitiful  sight 
you  ever  saw — the  servant  girl  in  hysterics  and  the 
poor  old  boss  steadying  his  voice  to  take  the  blame 
off  her  he'd  said  he'd  kill.  Ay,  he  was  standing  just 
in  front  of  the  verandah,  within  three  yards  of  where 
we  are  now,  and  that  rolled-up  print  was  still  in  his 
hand. 

"  So  no  more  was  said  about  my  carting  the  poor 
girl  off  that  night;  but  Wellington  and  Blucher  were 
run  up  all  the  same,  and  at  sundown  they  were  bowl- 
ing the  buggy  away  back  to  the  twelve-mile  with  me 
in  her.  You  see,  the  twelve-mile  whim-driver  was 
Gunbar  George,  our  oldest  hand,  who  knew  every  inch 
of  the  run,  so  the  boss  thought  that  George  would  lay 
hold  of  little  Mona  sooner  than  he  could,  if  she  was  in 
the  mallee.  And  that's  where  she  was,  we  were  all 
quite  certain;  and  George  was  certain  too,  when  I  told 
him;  and  he  told  of  a  man  he  himself  had  once  found 
in  our  mallee,  stone-dead,  with  '  died  from  thirst ' 


158  SOME   rEESONS   UNKNOWN 

scratched  in  the  grime  on  the  bottom  of  his  quart  pot, 
and  all  within  a  mile  of  this  very  homestead. 

"  That  wasn't  a  pretty  story  to  leave  behind  with  a 
new  chum  who  was  going  to  camp  alone  in  a  lonely 
hut  for  the  first  time  of  asking,  and  nothing  to  think 
about  but  the  poor  little  bairn  that  was  lost.  I  tell 
you,  I  shall  remember  that  night  as  long  as  I  live,  and 
how  I  felt  when  I  had  seen  the  last  of  George  and  the 
buggy  in  the  moonlight;  for  by  that  time  it  was  night, 
and  just  such  another  as  this,  with  the  moon  right 
overhead,  as  round  as  an  orange,  and  not  a  cloud  in  the 
sky.  Ah!  we  have  plenty  of  nights  like  that  in  the 
back-blocks,  and  one  full  moon  is  as  like  the  last  as 
two  peas,  for  want  of  clouds;  and  somehow  they  al- 
ways seem  to  come  before  they're  due;  yet  it's  a  weary 
while  to  look  back  upon,  with  that  night  at  the  end 
of  all,  like  a  gate  after  five  miles  of  posts  and  wire. 
Say  now — have  you  never  heard  him  all  this  time?  " 
He  had  paused,  with  his  head  bent  and  on  one  side. 

I  replied  that  I  had  heard  nothing  but  his  story; 
that  what  I  wanted  to  hear  was  the  end  of  it,  and  that 
Mad  Trevor  would  keep.  He  smiled  when  I  said  that, 
and  stood  listening  for  another  minute  or  more,  with 
his  eyes  drawn  back  into  his  head. 

"  Ah,  well! "  he  tossed  up  his  head  and  went  on, 
"  it  came  to  an  end  in  time,  like  most  nights;  but  the 
worst  was  before  it  began,  when  I  could  hear  George 
cracking  his  whip  whenever  I  stood  still.  So  I  stood 
still  until  I  knew  I  should  hear  him  no  more,  and  then 


THE   VOICE  OF   GUNBAB  159 

I  blew  up  the  fire  for  my  tea,  for  I  had  a  fair  twist 
after  all  that  driving.    But  Lord,  you'll  hear  how  your 
boots  creak  the  first  time  you  camp  alone  in  a  hut — 
especially  if  it's  a  good  one  with  a  floor  to  it  like  our 
twelve-mile!    I  tell  you  I  took  mine  off,  and  then  I 
put  'em  on  again,  because  my  stocking-soles  made 
just  as  much  noise  in  their  own  way,  and  it  was  a 
creepier  way.    Then  there  are  two  or  three  rooms  to 
the  hut  out  there — it's  a  fine  hut,  our  twelve-mile — 
and  I  had  to  poke  my  nose  into  them  all  before  I  could 
tackle  my  tea.    And  then  I  had  to  walk  right  round 
the  hut  in  the  moonlight,  as  if  it  had  been  a  desert 
island.    But  it  was  lighter  outside  than  in,  for  I  had 
nothing  but  a  slush-lamp — you  know,  a  strip  of  mole- 
skin in  a  tin  of  mutton  fat — and  I  didn't  understand 
the  working  of  one  in  those  days  any  better  than  I 
suppose  you  would  now.    Well,  then,  the  whim-water 
at  the  twelve-mile  is  brackish,  so  I  had  to  fill  the  billy 
at  an  open  tank  that  was  getting  low;  but  there'd  been 
a  tantalising  little  shower  of  sixty  points  a  day  or  two 
before  that  had  made  the  water  muddy;   and  I  very 
well  remember  that  the  billy  looked  full  of  tea  before 
I  opened  my  hand  to  slip  the  tea  in.    Then  the  hut 
was  swarming  with  bull-ants,  and  they  came  crawling 
up  the  sides  of  the  billy  and  into  the  tea  where  I  had 
set  it  to  cool  on  the  floor;  and  the  light  was  so  bad 
that  I  had  to  chance  those  ants,  because  you  couldn't 
tell  them  from  tea-leaves.     Well,  I  could  have  en- 
joyed the  experience,  and  thought  of  the  fine  letter 


160  SOME    PERSONS    UNKNOWN 

home  it  would  have  made,  if  I  hadn't  been  thinking 
all  the  time  of  that  poor  little  thing  in  the  mallee.  I 
was  just  about  as  new  a  chum  as  you  are  now,  and 
there  was  a  kind  of  interest  in  turning  my  pouch  in- 
side out  for  the  last  pipeful  of  the  cut-up  tobacco  I 
had  brought  up  with  me  from  Melbourne.  It  was  one 
of  the  last  fills  of  cut-up  that  ever  I  had  until  you 
handed  me  your  pouch  to-night,  because  when  you 
once  get  used  to  the  black  cakes  you'll  find  you'll  stick 
to  them.  So  there  I  sat  and  smoked  my  pipe  on  the 
doorstep,  and  kept  looking  at  the  moon,  and  thinking 
of  the  old  people  in  the  old  country,  and  wishing  they 
could  see  me  just  then.  I  daresay  you  think  like  that 
sometimes,  but  you'll  find  you  get  over  that  too.  It 
was  worse  to  think  of  that  little  mite  in  the  mallee 
scrub,  and  how  she  had  sat  on  my  knee  the  night  be- 
fore; and  how  she  would  come  into  my  store  when  I 
was  doing  the  books,  spill  the  flour  about,  and  keep  on 
asking  questions.  That's  the  store  over  there,  at  the 
other  side  of  the  new  well,  with  the  bell  on  top  and  the 
narrow  verandah  in  front.  I  must  show  you  little 
Mona's  height  on  the  centre  post:  I  had  to  measure 
her  every  morning  after  once  getting  her  to  bed  by 
telling  her  she  only  grew  in  her  sleep. 

"  Well,  thinking  wouldn't  do  any  good,  and  my  last 
pipe  of  cut-up  was  soon  done,  for  it  was  nothing  but 
powder.  I  had  brought  a  cake  of  the  black  stuff  with 
me,  but  it  was  too  strong  for  me  in  those  days.  So 
then  I  thought  I  had  better  turn  in,  though  it  was 


THE   VOICE  OF  GUXBAR  161 

only  ten  o'clock;  so  I  took  my  blanket  and  the  slush- 
lamp  to  the  little  dark  room  at  the  back,  and  pulled  off 
my  coat  and  boots,  and  spread  my  blanket  on  George's 
bunk.     And  before  I  lay  down — well,  I  thought  I 
should  like  to  put  in  a  prayer  for  the  poor  little  thing 
that  was  lost;  and  I  reckon  it  was  about  the  last  time 
I  was  ever  on  my  knees  at  that  business,  for  you'll  find 
these  back-blocks  don't  make  a  man  more  religious 
than  he  need  be.    But  it  was  a  comfort  to  me  that 
night;   and,  while  I  was  kneeling,  a  little  kitten  of 
George's,  that  I'd  never  noticed  when  I  first  looked 
into  the  room,  came  out  and  went  for  my  stocking- 
soles;  and  that  was  another  comfort,  I  tell  you!  Mind 
you,  I  was  twelve  miles  from  a  house,  and  five  from  the 
nearest  fellow-creature,  a  boundary-rider  on  the  next 
run.    I  had  never  been  able  to  get  that  out  of  my  head, 
so  the  kitten  was  a  godsend,  and  though  he  would 
come  on  to  the  bed  to  tickle  my  toes,  I  wouldn't  have 
been  without  him  for  all  I  was  worth.    I  had  a  paper 
too — one  of  my  home  papers  that  I  hadn't  had  time 
to  read;  and  I  stuck  up  the  slush-lamp,  and  strained 
my  eyes  at  the  print  until  I  couldn't  keep  them  open 
any  longer;  and  what  with  the  kitten,  that  was  purr- 
ing very  loud  at  my  feet  (but  the  louder  he  made  it 
the  homelier  it  sounded),  I  found  myself  tumbling  off 
to  sleep  long  before  I  had  expected  to,  and  in  better 
heart  too. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  have  slept  for  some  hours,  for 
when  I  woke  the  moon  was  low  and  swollen,  and  hang- 
11 


162  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

ing  like  a  Chinese  lantern  in  the  very  middle  of  my 
open  doorway.  But  I  never  looked  at  my  watch;  I 
lay  there  staring  at  the  setting  moon,  and  listening 
for  a  repetition  of  the  sound  that  had  roused  me.  I 
had  not  long  to  wait,  but  yet  long  enough  to  make  me 
wonder  at  the  time  whether  I  mightn't  have  heard  it 
in  my  dreams  only.  And  then  it  came  again — the 
long-drawn  wail,  the  piercing  final  cry  of  a  coo-ee  from 
one  that  had  learnt  to  coo-ee  before  he  could  speak. 
As  my  feet  touched  the  floor  I  heard  another  coo-ee; 
as  I  ran  out  into  the  moonshine  there  came  a  fourth; 
but  the  fifth  was  in  my  ear  before  I  knew  that  they 
all  came  from  the  mallee  scrub  that  spreads  westward 
from  here  to  within  half  a  mile  of  the  twelve-mile 
whim.  Then  I  answered  as  well  as  I  knew  how;  but 
the  acquirement  was  a  very  recent  one  in  my  case;  and 
besides,  my  wits  were  still  in  a  tangle.  For  first  I 
thought  it  was  the  child  herself,  until  I  realised,  with 
a  laugh  at  the  absurdity  of  the  idea,  that  she  could 
neither  walk  so  far  nor  coo-ee  like  that;  and  then  I 
supposed  it  must  be  some  chance  traveller  that  had 
got  bushed,  like  others  before  him,  in  that  deadly  mal- 
lee. But  all  the  while  I  was  answering  his  coo-ees  as 
best  I  could,  and  running  in  my  socks  in  the  direction 
from  which  they  rjeemed  to  come.  And  long  before  I 
spied  my  man  I  made  sure  that  it  was  Mad  Trevor 
himself,  for  I  knew  no  other  with  such  lungs,  and  who 
else  would  have  searched  for  a  bairn  of  five  so  many 
weary  miles  from  the  spot  where  it  had  last  been  seen? 


THE  VOICE  OF  GUNBAR  163 

"  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  himself  had  no  notion 
where  he  was,  until  he  saw  me  standing  in  front  of 
him  in  the  low  moonlight.  Then  he  wanted  to  know 
what  I  meant  by  coming  back  from  the  twelve-mile; 
for,  don't  you  see,  he  thought  he  had  been  coasting 
around  the  home-station  all  night — and  that'll  tell 
you  about  our  mallee!  When  I  set  him  right  he  just 
stood  there,  wringing  his  big  hands  like  a  woman; 
and  it  was  worse  to  see  than  when  he  cried  like  a  child 
before  the  little  one's  nurse. 

"  Of  course  I  got  him  to  come  back  with  me  to  the 
hut;  and  he  leant  on  my  shoulder  with  his  sixteen 
stone,  and  he  just  said,  '  Well,  Harry,  I  don't  believe 
she's  in  the  mallee  at  all.  I've  been  coo-eeing  for  her 
the  whole  night,  ever  since  you  went;  and  George  has 
been  coo-eeing  for  her  ever  since  he  came;  and  all 
hands  have  been  coo-eeing  for  her  in  the  mallee  all 
night  long.  And  I  don't  believe  she's  there  at  all.  I 
believe  she's  somewhere  about  the  homestead  all  the 
time.  We  never  looked  there.  What  fools  we  all  are. 
You  shall  make  me  a  pannikin  of  tea,  and  I'll  turn  in 
and  have  a  sleep,  Harry;  and  we'll  go  back  together 
when  it's  light;  and  we'll  find  her  asleep  in  the  chaff- 
house,  I  shouldn't  wonder,  if  they  haven't  found  her 
already;  you  bet  we'll  find  her  safe  and  sound  in  some 
ho/e  or  corner,  the  rogue!  frightening  her  old  dad  out 
of  all  his  wits.' 

•'  And  indeed,  as  he  spoke,  he  gave  a  mad  laugh 
even  for  him;  and  I  shrank  away  irom  under  his  great 


164  SOME    PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

hand,  that  would  keep  tightening  on  my  shoulder; 
and  left  him  to  sit  down  in  the  hut  while  I  went  to 
the  wood-heap,  and  then  to  the  tank  to  rinse  and  re- 
fill the  hilly. 

"  But  that  notion  of  his  ahout  the  homestead  had 
heen  my  notion  too,  in  a  kind  of  way;  only  I  had 
kept  it  to  myself  because  they  were  all  so  cock-sure  it 
was  the  mallee,  and  they  would  know  best.  I  was 
thinking  it  out,  though,  as  I  chopped  the  wood,  and 
thinking  it  out  as  I  rinsed  the  billy.  Now,  to  do  this 
where  the  water  was  clearest,  I  had  to  lean  over  from 
a  bit  of  a  staging,  the  tank  being  low,  as  I  told  you. 
But  this  time,  through  thinking  so  much  more  of 
Mona  than  of  what  I  was  doing,  I  lost  my  balance,  and 
very  nearly  toppled  in.  And  then  I  had  to  think  no 
more,  for  in  a  flash  I  knew  where  little  Mona  was." 

The  instant  he  paused  I  saw  him  listening.  He  was 
standing  in  front  of  me  now,  but  my  back  was  still  to 
the  little  fig-tree,  and  my  hands  had  the  hurdle  tight. 
I  neither  spoke  nor  took  my  eyes  off  him  till  he  went 
on. 

"  Yes,  she  was  under  the  ground  you're  standing 
on,"  said  Warburton,  nodding  his  head  as  I  started 
from  the  place;  "  she  had  fallen  into  the  old  well, 
and  pulled  down  the  lid  in  trying  to  save  herself.  I 
knew  it  at  the  moment  I  was  near  toppling  into  the 
twelve-mile  tank  that  wasn't  one  foot  deep.  It 
turned  out  to  be  so.  But  I  was  never  surer  of  it  than 
when  I  went  hack  to  the  hut,  spilling  the  water  the 


THE   VOICE  OF  0  UNBAR  165 

whole  way,  I  was  in  such  a  tremble.  And  the  diffi- 
culty was  to  keep  the  knowledge — for  knowledge  it 
was — from  the  poor  boss;  it  had  cheered  him  so  to 
think  the  child  had  never  been  near  the  mallee!  Why, 
before  daylight  he  dozed  off  quite  comfortably  on 
George's  bunk  in  my  blanket;  and  I  sat  and  watched 
him,  and  listened  to  him  snoring;  and  could  have 
fetched  the  axe  from  the  wood-heap  and  brained  him 
where  he  lay,  so  that  he  might  never  know. 

"And  he  took  it  so  calmly  after  all!  I  do  assure 
you,  when  we  had  buried  her  alongside  her  mother, 
he  stood  where  we  are  now,  and  set  all  hands  digging 
the  new  well  and  filling  in  the  old,  and  swore  at  us  like 
a  healthy  man  when  we  didn't  do  this  or  that  his  way. 
It  was  he  who  designed  those  palings,  and  would  have 
no  more  lids,  but  a  pump;  though  there  was  neither 
woman  nor  child  on  the  station  to  meet  with  acci- 
dents now,  but  only  us  men.  And  he  was  smoking 
his  pipe  when  he  planted  this  fig,  for  I  was  by  at  the 
time,  and  remember  him  telling  me  his  wife  had 
brought  it  from  Moreton  Bay  in  Queensland.  I  had 
seen  it  often  in  a  pot,  and  now  I  had  to  say  whether 
it  was  plumb;  and  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  his 
head  on  one  side  he  seemed  as  callous  as  you  please. 
And  for  three  weeks,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  he 
slept  every  night  in  his  room,  and  I  would  have 
thought  nothing  of  sleeping  there  with  him,  he  was 
bearing  it  so  grandly.  Then  came  the  full  moon  and 
the  bright  nights  again;  and  we  heard  him  in  the  mal- 


166  SOME   PEESONS   UNKNOWN 

lee,  coo-eeing  for  the  child  that  lay  beside  her 
mother — him  that  had  buried  them  both! 

"  Well,  he  didn't  come  back  next  morning,  so  now 
all  hands  turned  out  to  search  for  him.  But  we 
never  found  hini  all  day,  for  he  had  crossed  his  tracks 
again  and  again;  and  all  next  night  we  heard  him 
coo-eeing  away  for  his  dead  child,  but  now  hi&  coo-ee 
was  getting  hoarse;  and  God  knows  why,  but  none  of 
us  could  manage  to  set  eyes  on  him.  It  was  I  who 
found  him  the  day  after.  He  was  lying  under  a  hop- 
bush,  but  the  sun  had  shifted  and  was  all  over  him. 
His  lips  were  black,  and  I  felt  certain  he  was  dead. 
But  when  I  sung  out  he  jumped  clean  to  his  feet, 
with  his  fists  clenched  and  his  red  beard  blowing  in 
the  hot  wind,  and  his  face  and  his  eyes  on  fire.  And 
if  he  had  never  been  mad  before,  he  was  then. 

"  He  opened  his  mouth,  and  I  expected  a  roar,  but 
I  couldn't  understand  a  word  he  said  until  he  had  half 
emptied  my  water-bag. 

" '  What  do  you  want  with  me? '  he  says  at  last; 
and  of  course  I  said  I  wanted  him  to  come  back  to  the 
station  with  me.  So  he  says,  '  You  leave  me  alone — 
don't  you  meddle  with  me.  I'm  not  coming  back  till 
I  find  my  little  'un  that's  bushed  in  this  mallee.'  So 
then  I  saw  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  firmness,  and 
I  said  he  must  come  with  me — as  if  it  had  been  poor 
wee  Mona  herself.  But  he  only  laughed  and  swore, 
and  went  on  warning  me  not  to  meddle  with  him. 
Well,  I  was  just  forced  to.    But  sixteen  stone  takes  a 


THE   VOICE   OF   GUNBAR  167 

lot  of  weakening,  and  the  last  I  saw  of  him  alive  was 
his  great  freckled  fist  coming  at  my  head.  I  went 
down  like  a  pithed  hullock.  And  it  was  I  who  found 
him  again  the  week  after,  when  he  must  have  been 
all  but  a  week  dead — but  I  had  heard  him  coo-eeing 
every  blessed  night! " 

He  was  listening  again:  whenever  he  paused,  I 
caught  him  listening.  I  was  still  to  understand  it, 
and  the  deep-down  scare  in  his  eyes. 

"  Stop  a  bit!  "  said  I.  "  Don't  tell  me  he's  dead  if 
he's  only  mad,  and  you've  got  him  in  some  hut  some- 
where. You  say  you  can  hear  him  coo-eeing — I  see 
you  can." 

Warburton  of  Gunbar  heaved  the  saddest  sigh  I 
have  ever  heard. 

"  I  hear  him  always,"  he  said  quietly,  "  when  the 
moon  is  at  the  full.  I  have  done,  all  along,  and  it's 
close  on  ten  years  ago  now.  It's  in  the  mallee  I  hear 
him,  just  as  he  heard  little  Mona;  yet  they  all  three 
lie  together  over  yonder  behind  the  stock-yards. 
H'sh,  man,  h*sh !  "  He  was  gripping  at  my  arm,  but  I 
twisted  away  from  him  even  as  himself  from  Mad 
Trevor,  because  his  listening  eyes  were  more  than 
enough  for  me.  "There's  his  coo-ee  again!"  he 
cried,  raising  a  hand  that  never  quivered.  "  Mean  to 
tell  me  you  can't  hear  it  now?  " 


THE   MAGIC   CIGAR 

It  was  one  of  such  a  hundred  as  seldom  find  their 
way  to  the  hack-blocks  of  New  South  Wales.  And 
the  box  was  heralded  by  the  following  letter,  written 
at  a  London  club  in  the  depth  of  winter,  and  read  by 
me  in  my  shirt-sleeves  some  few  weeks  later,  as  I  rode 
home  to  the  station  with  our  weekly  mail: — 

"  Dear  Old  Boy, — A  Merry  Christmas  to  you,  and  may  the 

Lord  give  you  wisdom  with  the  New  Year,  that  you  don't  spend 

much  of  it  in  such  an  infernal  hole  as  your  station  seems  to  be. 

I'm  particularly  exercised  about  the  baccy  like  shoe-leather, 

which  you  cut  up  for  yourself  before  every  pipe.     I  fear  it  may 

have  a  demoralising  effect,  so  am  sending  you  a  Christmas  box 

of  decent  cigars.     Don't  treasure  them,  old  chap,  but  smoke  the 

whole  lot  between  Christmas  and  New  Year,  and  if  you  like  'em 

send  for  more  from  your  affectionate  brother 

"  Charles." 

Charles  was  a  trump;  but  he  had  reckoned  without 
the  colonial  tariff.  I  had  to  get  a  friend  in  Sydney 
to  go  to  the  custom-house  for  me,  and  I  paid  pretty 
heavily  for  my  cigars  before  they  ultimately  reached 
me  about  the  middle  of  January.  However,  they  were 
well  worth  the  money  and  the  delay;  for  the  dear 
good  fellow  had  sent  me  a  box  of  Villar-y-Villar  (Ex- 

168 


THE  MAGIC  CIGAK  169 

cepcionales  Rothschild)  to  waste  their  costly  fra- 
grance upon  the  drought-stricken  wilds  of  lliverina. 

You  should  have  seen  us  when  we  opened  the  box, 
the  manager  and  I.  It  was  the  cool  of  the  evening  in 
the  homestead  verandah,  yet  there  was  not  wind 
enough  to  shake  the  flame  of  a  vesta.  We  brought  out 
the  kerosine  lamp,  set  it  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
verandah,  and  seated  ourselves  one  on  each  side,  with 
our  feet  in  the  sand  of  the  station  yard,  and  the  cigar- 
box  also  between  us.  Keverently  we  raised  the  lid 
with  a  paper-knife,  and  were  impressed,  you  may  be 
sure,  to  find  the  cigars  wrapped  up  in  silver  paper, 
every  one,  and  looking  like  so  many  little  silver  torpe- 
does under  the  lamp.  Then  we  lit  up,  and  leaned 
against  the  verandah  posts,  and  blew  beautiful  clouds 
into  the  cloudless  purple  sky,  and  listened  to  the 
locusts,  and  made  a  bet  as  to  whose  ash  would  fall  first, 
which  the  manager  won.  Altogether  it  was  a  luxuri- 
ous hour,  and  I  for  one  had  never  tasted  such  a  cigar 
before.  The  manager,  however,  a  native  of  the  col- 
ony, asserted  that  he  had  often  bought  as  good,  or  bet- 
ter, of  a  bush  hawker,  at  twenty-five  shillings  the  hun- 
dred. But  I  had  noticed  how  very  gingerly  he  re- 
moved the  silver  paper  from  what  was  now  a  few  heaps 
of  very  white  ash  and  a  stump,  which  he  was  smoking, 
with  the  aid  of  his  pen-knife,  down  to  the  last  quar- 
ter-inch. 

Though  the  gift  came  so  late,  the  donor's  sporting 
injunctions  I  considered  as  sacred,  and  we  gave  our- 


170  SOME    PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

solves  a  week  to  finish  the  box  in.  It  was  heavy  smok- 
ing for  hard-working  young  men  accustomed  only  to 
the  pipe.  I  afterwards  found  that  the  manager  had 
banked  some  of  his  share  in  his  desk,  and  I  did  not 
smoke  all  mine  myself.  I  kept  a  case  in  my  pocket, 
however,  and  so  it  happened  that  I  had  cigars  about 
me  on  the  broiling  day  when  I  camped  in  the  shade 
with  the  man  who  had  the  reputation  of  being  the 
champion  swearer  of  the  back-blocks.  He  was  also 
a  capital  hand  with  sheep,  but  it  was  his  notoriously 
foul  mouth  that  had  made  him  a  public  character, 
and  throughout  the  district  he  was  known  as  Hell-fire 
Jim. 

We  had  met  neither  by  accident  nor  design,  but 
all  by  reason  of  the  incredibly  long  range  of  Jim's 
language  at  its  worst:  on  this  occasion  he  must  have 
brought  me  down  at  several  hundred  yards.  Xot 
that  it  was  more  than  a  voice  that  reached  me  first,  for 
I  was  cantering  to  his  assistance  when  the  words 
caused  me  to  draw  rein  and  to  marvel.  It  is  one  thing 
to  use  strong  language  in  wild  places  where  it  is  im- 
possible to  enforce  your  meaning  without  recourse  to 
the  local  convention;  to  curse  dumb  animals  in  the 
silent  bush,  as  Jim  was  doing  when  I  came  up  with 
him,  is  surely  different  and  peculiar.  Yet  I  found 
him  in  provoking  plight:  wrestling  in  the  thick  of 
the  scrub  with  some  twenty  weak  sheep.  The  sheep 
were  camping  under  the  trees  in  twos  and  threes.  Jim 
was  galloping  from  one  group  to  another  with  the 


THE   MAGIC   CIGAR  171 

perspiration  dripping  from  his  nose  and  beard  and  im- 
precations hurtling  from  his  mouth;  but  it  was  im- 
possible for  a  mere  man  on  horseback  to  round  up 
that  mob  among  those  trees,  or  to  manage  them  at  all; 
and  Jim's  dog  was  skulking  and  lolling  its  tongue, 
good  for  nothing  for  want  of  water. 

That  was  where  I  had  come  in.  My  water-bag  was 
nearly  full;  his  had  sprung  a  leak  and  was  empty. 
To  give  the  dog  a  drink  out  of  his  wideawake  was  the 
boundary-rider's  first  act  when  I  handed  him  my  bag; 
then  he  took  a  pull  himself.  The  suggestion  that  we 
should  off-saddle  and  do  a  spell  together  came  from 
me.  The  dog  had  found  its  voice  and  rounded  up  the 
mob  before  Jim  finished  drinking;  we  set  him  to 
watch  the  sheep  in  the  shade,  tethered  our  horses,  and 
carried  our  saddles  to  a  tree  apart,  leaving  marks  like 
inkstains  on  the  animals'  backs.  The  place  was  a 
sandy  gully  thickly  timbered  with  pines.  We  chose 
the  tree  with  the  closest  warp  and  woof  of  shadow 
underneath,  and  there  made  short  work  of  such  provi- 
sions as  we  carried,  with  further  reductions  in  the 
bulk  of  my  water-bag. 

It  was  the  very  hottest  day  I  can  remember  in  the 
bush;  in  the  shade  of  the  homestead  verandah  the 
thermometer  touched  116°;  and  I  recollect  my  com- 
panion showing  me  a  tear  in  his  moleskins,  done  that 
morning  by  a  pine-branch,  and  the  little  triangle  of 
exposed  skin  on  which  an  hour's  sun  had  left  the 
mark  of  a  mustard  leaf.     The  fellow  was  near  to 


172  SOME   PERSONS  UNKNOWN 

physical  perfection,  a  sterling  specimen  of  the  Saxon 
type,  with  the  fair  skin  which  naturally  burns  red; 
but  his  blue  eyes  were  sunken,  and  had  the  strange 
rickety  look  of  one  who  has  drunk  both  deep  and  long 
at  some  period  of  his  life.  Jim  still  knocked  down  his 
cheque,  but  not  oftener  or  with  worse  effects  than 
another.  ^  We  regarded  him,  however,  as  our  biggest 
blackguard,  and  as  such  he  interested  me,  so  that  my 
eye  was  on  him  as  we  ate:  I  afterwards  remembered 
his  way  of  eating. 

Our  snack  over,  Jim  had  his  cutty  in  his  mouth 
and  was  paring  a  plug  of  black  tobacco  before  I 
thought  of  my  cigars.  He  laughed  and  swore  as  I 
produced  the  case,  but  when  I  opened  it,  and  the 
silver  cones  stuck  out  under  his  nose,  he  helped  him- 
self without  a  word.  His  easy  method  of  slipping  off 
the  silver  paper  (which  had  visibly  embarrassed  the 
manager  of  our  station),  and  the  way  the  boundary- 
rider  held  out  his  hand  for  my  knife,  are  two  more 
things  which  struck  one  later.  The  shape  of  that  sun- 
chapped  hand  is  a  third.  Heaven  knows  I  was  not 
consciously  observant  at  the  time.  I  rolled  over  on 
my  back,  my  saddle  for  a  pillow,  and  took  to  sending 
up  soft,  chastening  clouds  into  the  garish  blue  over- 
head. The  subtle  fragrance  of  the  smoke  mingled 
with  the  pungent  smell  of  the  pines,  the  hot  still  air 
grew  rich  with  both;  a  vertical  sun  stabbed  the  fronds 
above  us  with  pins  and  needles  of  dazzling  light  that 
struck  to  the  ground  like  golden  rain;   and,  but  for 


THE   MAGIC   CIGAR  173 

my  cigar,  I  had  yielded  to  these  sensuous  influences 
and  thrown  it  aside  to  close  my  eyes.  Thus  was  I  the 
slave  of  my  luxury,  but  consoled  myself  with  the 
thought  that  Jim's  enjoyment  would  at  least  be  heart- 
whole.  Yet  he  never  said  so,  and  as  we  lay  I  could 
see  no  more  of  him  than  a  single  sidespring  boot,  a 
long  spur,  and  three  inches  of  shiny  brown  legging. 

"  You  don't  say  how  it  strikes  you,  Jim." 

"  The  cigar?  " 

"  To  be  sure." 

"  Oh,  it's  not  a  bad  smoke." 

"  No?  "  I  raised  myself  on  one  elbow  to  look  at  the 
fellow.  He  had  the  cigar  between  his  forefinger  and 
thumb,  and  was  blowing  the  most  perfect  rings  of  to- 
bacco-smoke I  ever  saw. 

"  Yes,  it's  a  good  cigar,"  our  boundary-rider  went 
so  far  as  to  concede;  then  he  replaced  it  between  his 
teeth,  after  a  moment's  scrutiny  with  his  unkempt 
head  on  one  side. 

"  Quite  sure?  "  I  smiled. 

"  Quite.  For  my  part,  mind  you,  I  prefer  a  good 
Muria — they're  not  so  rich.  It's  purely  a  matter  of 
taste,  however,  and  certainly  these  are  much  more 
expensive." 

"  Indeed!    Perhaps  you  can  price  them,  Jim?  " 

"  The  cigar  that  I  am  smoking,"  said  Hell-fire  Jim, 
"  would  cost  you  a  shilling  at  the  club.  If  a  shilling 
or  two  were  an  object,  I  suppose  you  could  get  them 
by  the  box  at  about  ninety-two  the  hundred," 


171  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

It  was  no  longer  what  he  said  that  astonished  me, 
but  the  soft  tone  of  his  voice  and  the  sudden  absence 
from  his  conversation  of  the  ingenious  oath-combina- 
tions for  which  it  was  notorious.  I  sat  bolt  upright 
now,  and  must  have  shown  my  feelings  pretty  plainly, 
for  he  hastened  to  explain. 

"  I  was  once  a  waiter  in  a  London  club,"  he  said. 
"  That's  how  I  know." 

"  Not  a  waiter,  Jim,"  said  I,  looking  him  steadily 
in  his  sunken  eyes.  Then  I  begged  his  pardon.  But 
Jim  seemed  pleased. 

"  Mean  to  say  you  think  I  was  a  member?  " 

"  If  you  ask  me,  that  was  my  idea." 

"  Then  you  were  right.  I  was  a  member  of  several. 
Does  it  surprise  you?  "  he  added,  with,  I  think,  a 
rather  wistful  smile.  I  cannot  be  sure  of  that  smile. 
His  whole  manner  was  agreeably  free  from  senti- 
ment. 

"  It  doesn't  surprise  me  a  bit,"  I  said. 

-"  Not  to  find  me  the  stump-end  of  a  gentleman, 
eh?" 

"  No;  I  see  that  you  are  one." 

"  Was,  my  boy — was,"  corrected  Jim.  "  I  say,"  he 
went  on,  "  this  is  a  great  cigar!  You  have  to  puff  a  bit 
to  appreciate  it  properly." 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  left  a  number  of  his 
little  grey  rings  curling  into  thin  air  against  the  blue. 
I  was  not  going  to  ask  him  any  questions.  We  smoked 
for  some  time  in  silence.    Then  he  exclaimed,  with  his 


THE   MAGIC   CIGAR  175 

eyebrows  right  up  on  his  forehead,  as  though  he  him- 
self could  hardly  credit  it: 

"  Yes,  by  Jove !    I  was  at  Eton  and  the  House." 

"Nothing  surprises  me  in  this  country,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"  Yet  you're  about  the  first  that  ever  spotted  me. 
By  the  way,  I'm  not  the  wicked  baronet  or  the  dis- 
guised duke,  don't  you  know?  My  father's  only  a 
country  squire  of  sorts — if  he's  alive.  But  he  sent  me 
to  Eton  and  from  there  to  Oxford;  and  from  Oxford  I 
went  to  the  Temple,  and  from  the  Temple  to  the  devil 
and  all  his  angels.  There  I've  stuck.  And  that's  the 
genesis  of  Hell-fire  Jimmie,  if  you  care  to  know  it." 

I  cared  to  know  infinitely  more.  These  crude 
headings  were  small  satisfaction  to  me  looking  at  the 
handsome  sunburnt  stockman  and  realising  that  I  was 
alone  in  the  wilderness  with  the  romantic  ruin  of  a 
noble  manhood.  I  turned  away  from  the  quiet  devil- 
may-care  smile  in  the  sunken  blue  eyes,  in  order  to 
conceal  the  curiosity  which  was  consuming  me.  I 
dropped  back  on  my  elbow  to  the  ground,  and  stared 
into  the  unbroken  unsuggestive  blue  of  the  southern 
summer  sky.  When  I  sucked  at  my  cigar  I  discovered 
that  I  had  let  it  out.  Turning  once  more  to  my  com- 
panion, I  found  him  puffing  his  with  the  loving  de- 
liberation of  a  connoisseur. 

"  Like  velvet,  isn't  it?  "  he  murmured,  stroking  the 
brown  leaf  gently  witli  his  finger.  "  That's  one  of  the 
points  of  a  good  cigar,  and  another's  the  ash.    You 


176  SOME    PEESONS   UNKNOWN 

never  saw  a  firmer  nor  a  whiter  ash  than  this.  My 
good  fellow,  it's  a  cigar  for  the  gods!  " 

He  held  it  admiringly  at  arm's  length,  as  I  relit 
mine.  Then  he  smoked  on  in  silence,  but  very  slowly 
and  caressingly,  for  some  minutes  longer.  At  length 
he  said  musingly: 

"  I  wonder  how  long  it  is  since  I  smoked  my  last 
cigar?  How  long  is  it  since  I  came  out  here?  I'm 
losing  count  of  the  years,  and  I've  just  about  forgot- 
ten Oxford  and  London,  and  the  wine  and  the  women, 
and  the  old  country  altogether.  All  but  one  woman 
and  one  village.  ...  I  suppose  you  couldn't  put  a 
fellow  in  the  way  of  forgetting  them?  " 

I  was  still  wondering  what  on  earth  to  say  to  him 
— for  once  more  I  seemed  to  detect  a  wistful  ring  in 
his  voice — when  he  settled  the  question  himself  by 
laughing  in  my  face. 

"  How  could  you  help  me  when  you  don't  know 
the  yarn?  "  he  asked,  with  his  blue  eyes  full  of  amuse- 
ment. "  Look  here,  I've  a  good  mind  to  inflict  it  on 
you! " 

"Wouldn't  that  hurt?"  I  could  not  help  asking 
him. 

"  Nothing  hurts  now,"  he  answered,  with  a  queer, 
quiet  sort  of  swagger  in  his  tone  and  manner.  "  If 
anything  ever  did  hurt,  it's  what  I'm  thinking  of  now; 
it  might  hurt  less  if  I  told  you  something  about  it." 

"  Then  go  on  by  all  means.  You  may  trust  me  to 
hold  my  tongue." 


THE   MAGIC   CIGAR  177 

"My  good  fellow,  why  should  you?  Tell  whom 
you  like.  It  makes  no  difference.  Nothing  has  made 
any  difference  for  years.  Besides,  it's  well  enough 
known  in  the  old  country,  though  I've  never  spoken 
of  it,  drunk  or  sober,  out  here.  I  can't  think  why  I 
should  want  to  speak  of  it  now — but  I  do." 

He  leant  towards  me  and  paused,  admiring  the 
white  unbroken  ash  of  his  cigar,  and  half  smiling. 
That  half-smile  was  to  me  the  saddest  feature  of  a 
narrative  of  which  it  was  the  constant  accompani- 
ment. The  tragic  story  which  affected  me  so  deeply 
seemed  simply  to  interest  the  man  who  had  brought 
the  tragedy  about.  He  told  it  in  the  fewest  and  the 
coolest  words. 

"  One  village  and  one  woman — that's  all.  Deuce 
knows  how  many  other  women  there  were  who  could 
claim  to  come  into  the  yarn,  but  I've  forgotten  them 
all  but  that  one.  There  were  plenty  of  villages,  too, 
round  about,  including  our  own,  but  I'm  only  going  to 
tell  you  of  hers.  Ours  was  not  so  much  a  village  as 
a  kingdom  under  the  absolute  rule  of  the  most  tyran- 
nical old  despot  in  this  world — if  he  is  in  it  still — I 
mean  my  father.  He  bullied  and  bossed  the  whole 
parish,  including  the  parson,  insulting  the  poor  devil 
and  threatening  to  have  him  suspended  every  other 
Sunday.  He  himself  snarled  out  the  lessons  in 
church,  and  he  made  me  learn  texts  by  rote  before  I 
could  read;  for  my  father  was  one  of  those  hard-bit- 
12 


178  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

ten  old  saints  who  breed  sinners  like  me  the  whole 
world  over. 

"  But  three  miles  from  our  village,  which  was  in  a 
constant  simmer  of  discontent  and  suppressed  rebel- 
lion, lay  just  the  sweetest  and  most  peaceful  spot  on 
earth,  where  it  seems  to  me  now  that  the  sun  was 
always  shining.  It  was  one  long,  old  street  of  yellow 
Malls  and  red  tiles,  and  when  you  got  to  the  end  of  it, 
there  was  the  thatched  church  and  the  rectory,  and 
the  good  old  rector  with  his  two  hands  stretched  out 
to  greet  you,  and  hovering  about  him,  to  a  certainty, 
the  purest  angel  that  ever  wasted  her  love  on  a  devil 
incarnate.  I  won't  tell  you  the  name  of  the  village 
nor  yet  of  the  county.  You'll  be  going  back  to  the 
old  dust  one  of  these  days,  and  you  might  run  across 
my  people.  I  don't  want  you  to  know  it  if  you  do. 
You  may  take  your  oath  you  won't  hear  of  me  from 
them;  they've  done  their  best  to  forget  my  existence. 
Oh,  dear,  yes,  my  name  on  the  station  books  is  as  false 
as  hell,  like  the  rest  of  me.  But  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  her  name.  It  was  Edith,  and  I  used  to  call  her 
Edie.  Jolly  name,  Edie,  sweet  and  simple  like  the 
poor  little  thing  herself.  Rum  thing,  isn't  it,  how 
easily  it  still  slips  off  my  tongue?  " 

He  stopped  to  smile  me  his  strange  impersonal 
smile,  and  to  attend  to  his  cigar.  So  far  he  had  been 
holding  it  between  finger  and  thumb,  and  admiring  it 
as  he  talked. 

"  You  will  see  how  rum  this  is  presently,"  he  con- 


THE   MAGIC   CIGAR  179 

tinued,  with  his  eye  on  three  fresh  rings  that  were 
circling  upward  from  his  mouth.  "  We  had  heen  boy 
and  girl  together,  but  when  we  wanted  to  be  man  and 
wife,  Edie's  old  father  would  not  let  us  be  engaged, 
because  he  kncv  of  my  blackguard  ways.  He  did  not 
give  that  as  his  reason.  Edie  was  very  young,  a  deli- 
cate slip  of  a  girl,  too,  and  it  must  have  been  a  long 
engagement  in  any  case.  We  were  to  remain  friends, 
however.  I  think  the  dear  old  boy  trusted  to  his  girl 
to  straighten  me  out  first;  if  she  couldn't,  then  no- 
body else  could. 

"  But  I  was  a  hopeless  case.  The  country-side  rang 
with  my  sins  long  before  I  was  sent  down  from  Ox- 
ford; and  went  on  ringing  afterwards,  louder  and 
louder,  when  I  settled  in  London  and  was  nominally 
reading  for  the  bar;  but  so  long  as  I  came  down  in 
time  for  prayers  when  I  was  at  home,  and  went  to 
hear  our  poor  brow-beaten  devil  on  Sundays,  my 
father  stopped  his  ears  and  shook  his  stick  at  those 
who  tried  to  tell  him  of  my  misdeeds.  I  don't  think 
he  much  cared  what  I  did  so  long  as  he  saw  the  soles 
of  my  boots  at  morning  prayers.  But  my  good  old 
friend  in  the  next  parish  was  different.  I  can  see 
him  now,  and  the  sorrow  in  his  kind  old  face,  when  he 
forbade  me  the  rectory  once  and  for  all.  I  felt  that, 
too,  and  on  my  way  home  whom  should  I  meet  in  the 
fields  but  Edith  herself?  So  I  made  as  clean  a  breast 
of  everything  as  one  could  to  a  young  girl.  Young  as 
she  was  though,  you  wouldn't  believe  how  that  girl 


180  SOME    PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

sympathised  and  understood;  and  you  won't  believe 
this  either,  but  her  kindness  fetched  the  tears  to  my 
eyes.  She  was  a  God's  angel  to  me  that  summer  day. 
I  took  her  in  my  arms,  little  white  feather  that  she 
was,  and  I  vowed  and  vowed  that  I  would  keep  straight 
for  her  sake  even  if  I  never  saw  her  any  more.  And 
when  I  wouldn't  touch  her  with  my  foul  mouth  she 
raised  her  pure  lips — I  can  feel  them  now — and 
kissed  my  cheek  of  her  own  accord.    She  did  indeed!  " 

His  voice  had  become  very  sad  and  soft — so  soft 
that  I  had  to  bend  forward  to  catch  some  of  the  words 
— but  there  was  a  quiet  bitter  note  in  it  that  cut  to 
the  heart.  And  as  he  paused,  and  went  on  smoking, 
the  queer  sardonic  smile  came  back  to  him.  His  cigar 
was  now  one  half  snowy  ash,  the  other  glossy  brown 
leaf,  and  as  he  smoked  a  little  red  ring  divided  the 
two.  He  remarked  afresh  on  the  excellence  of  the  ash 
before  resuming  his  story  in  a  lighter,  louder  tone 
that  lasted  him  almost  to  the  end. 

"  Now  I'm  going  to  tell  you  a  very  singular  thing. 
I  made  my  peace  with  the  old  rector,  partly  by  letter, 
partly  by  Edie's  intervention,  and  at  Christmas-time  I 
was  to  have  her  if  she  was  still  of  her  old  mind;  so  at 
Christmas-time  down  I  came  from  town  with  the  en- 
gagement ring  in  my  pocket,  I  knew  that  the  girl 
would  keep  true  to  me  through  thick  and  thin,  though 
I  did  hope  that  she  had  not  heard  of  a  certain  matter 
which  had  got  my  name  into  the  papers  that  autumn. 
Never  mind  what  it  was.    My  father  had  written  very 


THE   MAGIC   CIGAR  181 

violently  on  the  subject,  but  I  had  not  heard  a  word 
from  hers.  So  I  hoped  for  the  best.  I  was  not  as  yet 
a  fully  reformed  character,  but  I  was  about  to  become 
one.  The  night  before  I  left  town  I  never  went  to  bed 
at  all.  It  was  my  last  orgy;  but  I  was  sober  enough 
in  the  early  morning  to  go  to  Covent  Garden  in  my 
dress  clothes,  and  to  buy  flowers  to  take  down  to 
Edie  with  the  ring.  I  chose  roses,  because  they  were 
the  most  expensive  at  that  time  of  year;  and  red  ones, 
because  the  girl  was  naturally  so  pale.  Then  I  had  a 
sleep  in  my  chambers  all  the  morning,  and  went  down 
by  an  afternoon  train. 

"It  was  dark  when  I  landed  at  the  market-town 
where  the  dog-cart  used  to  meet  one.  I  hadn't  ordered 
it  this  time,  because  I  wasn't  going  straight  home. 
I  found  it  freezing  down  there,  and  I  thought  I  would 
walk  out  to  the  rectory  through  the  crisp  night  air, 
so  as  to  arrive  there  fresh,  for  by  now  I  felt  the  effects 
of  the  previous  night.  It  was  so  very  dark,  however, 
that  I  bought  a  lantern  and  made  them  light  it  before 
I  would  set  out  on  my  three  miles'  walk.  I  remember 
going  out  of  my  way  to  a  shop  where  I  was  not  known. 
That  market-town  was  our  nearest  one  of  any  size,  I 
had  made  it  too  hot  to  hold  me  before  I  was  one-and- 
twenty,  and  it  hadn't  cooled  down  yet. 

"  The  frost  had  followed  a  long  spell  of  dirty 
weather,  and  the  roads  were  fluted  ribbons  of  frozen 
mud.  My  footsteps  resounded  merrily  as  I  pushed 
into  the  darkness,  the  centre  of  a  moving  circle  of 


182  SOME    PEBSONS   UNKNOWN 

light  thrown  upon  the  ground  by  my  lantern.  I  shall 
never  forget  that  walk.  The  box  of  flowers  I  carried 
in  one  hand,  my  lantern  in  the  other,  and  for  all  my 
full  hands  I  must  needs  keep  feeling  for  the  ring  in 
my  pocket,  to  make  sure  that  I  had  it  safe.  And  I  felt 
as  though  my  back  was  turned  forever  upon  the  town, 
and  all  that.  We  would  be  married  without  unneces- 
sary delay,  and  we  would  live  well  outside  London — 
either  in  the  Thames  Valley  or  among  the  Surrey 
Hills,  I  thought.  At  any  price  we  would  keep  clear  of 
the  town;  1  would  go  in  as  late  as  possible  in  the 
mornings  and  return  quite  early  in  the  afternoon. 
My  old  haunts  should  know  me  no  more.  With  such 
a  prospect  and  so  many  good  resolutions  to  occupy 
my  mind,  the  way  seemed  short  enough,  and  I  was 
glowing  as  much  from  my  own  thoughts  as  from  the 
keen  clean  air  when  I  swung  open  the  rectory  gate 
and  walked  briskly  up  the  well-known  drive;  my 
heart  was  beating  mountains  high,  for  the  dear  old 
place  had  always  been  infinitely  more  homelike  to  me 
tli an  my  own  home. 

k'  The  house  struck  me  as  being  poorly  lighted,  but 
then  I  was  purposely  taking  them  by  surprise.  As  I 
came  up  to  it,  my  eyes  mounted  to  Edie's  bedroom 
window,  and  I  was  astonished  to  see  it  standing  wide 
open  to  the  bitter  air.  There  was  no  light  in  the 
room  either.  The  front  door  was  opened  by  the  rector 
himself.    He  seemed  agitated  at  the  sight  of  me;  nor 


THE  MAGIC  CIGAR  183 

would  he  .shake  my  hand,  and  I  knew,  then,  that  he 
had  seen  in  the  papers  that  which  I  hoped  had  es- 
caped his  notice.  With  a  sinking  heart  I  asked  for 
Edie.  The  old  man  peered  at  me  for  a  moment;  then 
he  answered  that  she  was  gone. 

"'Gone  away? ' 

"  He  nodded. 

"'And  when?' 

" '  This  morning.' 

" '  And  where  to? '  I  asked,  for  you  must  see  how 
disappointed  I  was. 

" '  Do  not  ask  me,'  he  says.  '  May  God  forgive  you, 
for  I,  His  minister,  never  can! '  he  sings  out.  And 
with  that  the  door  was  shut  in  my  face,  and  the  key 
turned  on  the  inside. 

"  God  knows  how  long  I  remained  standing  like  a 
fool  on  the  gravel  drive.  The  gravel  must  have  been 
very  soft  before  the  hard  frost  which  had  set  in  that 
afternoon,  for  the  light  of  my  lantern  struck  down 
upon  recent  wheel-marks  frozen  stiff  and  clean.  In- 
stinctively I  began  to  follow  them.  Edie  had  gone 
away,  I  was  on  her  track.  My  thoughts  were  con- 
fused, but  that  was  the  drift  of  them.  I  followed  the 
frozen  wheel -marks  out  into  the  road,  and  on,  on,  on; 
it  was  not  until  I  was  following  them  in  at  the  church- 
yard gate  that  my  confusion  fell  from  me,  and  left 
what  soul  there  was  in  me  naked  to  the  freezing  night 
air.    Still  my  lantern  fell  upon  the  wheel-marks,  and 


184  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

in v  Eeet  followed  them,  until  the  light  shone  cold  upon 
a  narrow  mound  half  hidden  with  white  flowers.  The 
fresh  brown  clay  was  already  frozen  as  hard  as  the 
roads.  I  spent  the  night  upon  it,  and  should  have 
frozen  too,  but  I  had  started  to  run  a  hell  of  my  own 
in  my  own  heart.  I'm  running  it  still.  When  I 
crawled  away  before  dawn  there  were  some  warm  red 
roses  among  the  cold  white  things.  I  was  glad  I  had 
them.  They're  the  one  part  of  it  I  don't  want  ever  to 
forget ! " 

His  voice  had  sunk  almost  to  a  whisper,  and  for  all 
the  heat  he  gave  such  a  shudder  that  the  long  ash 
was  shaken  at  last  from  his  cigar.  I  saw  him  gazing 
at  the  glowing  end.  All  at  once  a  fiery  arc  ran  from 
his  fingers  through  the  air,  and  nearly  the  half  of  a 
prime  Villar  lay  smouldering  in  the  Riverina  sun. 
I  watched  it  meditatively,  and  the  reed  of  heavy  smoke 
ascending  from  it  into  the  breathless  air.  I  thought 
of  the  prostrate  penitent  upon  the  frozen  grave.  I 
marvelled  at  the  refining  spell  which  had  bound  the 
entire  man  for  the  last  twenty  minutes,  utterly  chang- 
ing him.  And  I  wondered  how  long  that  spell  would 
survive  its  obvious  source. 

I  wondered  for  one  moment — with  the  soft,  sad, 
gentlemanly  voice  still  ringing  in  my  ears — and  for 
one  moment  only.  The  next,  a  bellow  at  my  side 
drowned  that  voice  forever;  and  Hell-fire  Jim  was 
himself  again,  screaming  curses  at  his  dog  and  his 


THE  MAGIC  CIGAR  185 

sheep,  as  one  who  realised  that  his  reputation  was  at 
stake. 

The  dog  was  stretching  itself  awake  in  the  slum- 
brous sunshine.  The  sheep  were  scattered  down  the 
gully  as  far  as  my  eyes  could  see 


THE  GOVERNESS  AT  GREENBUSH 


The  coach  was  before  its  time.  As  the  owner  of 
Greenbush  drove  into  the  township,  the  heavy, 
leather-hung,  vermilion  vehicle  was  the  first  object  to 
meet  his  eyes.  It  was  drawn  up  as  usual  in  front  of 
The  Stockman's  Rest,  and  its  five  horses  were  even 
yet  slinking  round  to  the  yards,  their  traces  flung 
across  their  smoking  backs.  The  passengers  had 
swarmed  on  the  hotel  verandah;  but  the  squatter 
looked  in  vain  for  the  flutter  of  a  woman's  skirt. 
What  he  took  for  one,  from  afar,  resolved  itself  at 
shorter  range  into  the  horizontal  moleskins  of  a  stock- 
man who  was  resting  amid  the  passengers'  feet,  a  liv- 
ing sign  of  the  house.  The  squatter  cocked  a  bushy 
eyebrow,  but  whistled  softly  in  his  beard  next  mo- 
ment. He  had  seen  the  governess.  She  was  not  with 
the  other  passengers,  nor  had  she  already  entered  the 
hotel.  She  was  shouldering  her  parasol,  and  other- 
wise holding  herself  like  a  little  grenadier,  alone  but 
unabashed  in  the  very  centre  of  the  broad  bush  street. 

186 


THE  GOVEKNE8S  AT  GBEENBUSH     187 

The  buggy  wheels  made  a  sharp  deep  curve  in  the 
sand,  the  whip  descended — the  pair  broke  into  a 
canter — the  brake  went  down — and  the  man  of  fifty 
was  shaking  hands  writh  the  woman  of  twenty-five. 
They  had  met  in  Melbourne  the  week  before,  when 
Miss  Winfrey  had.  made  an  enviable  impression  and 
secured  a  coveted  post.  But  Mr.  Pickering  had  half 
forgotten  her  appearance  in  the  interim,  and.  taking 
another  look  at  her  now,  he  was  quite  charmed  with 
his  own  judgment.  The  firm  mouth  and  the  decided 
chin  were  even  firmer  and  more  decided  in  the  full 
glare  of  the  Eiverina  sun  than  in  the  half-lights  of  the 
Melbourne  hotel;  and  the  expression  of  the  grave 
grey  eyes,  which  he  had  not  forgotten,  was,  if  possible, 
something  franker  and  more  downright  than  before. 
The  face  was  not  exactly  pretty,  but  it  had  strength 
and  ability.  And  strength  especially  was  what  was 
wanted  in  the  station  schoolroom. 

"  But  what  in  the  world,  Miss  Winfrey,  are  you 
doing  here?"  cried  Mr.  Pickering,  after  a  rather 
closer  scrutiny  than  was  perhaps  ideal.  "  I'm  very 
sorry  to  be  late,  but  why  ever  didn't  you  wait  in  the 
hotel?" 

"  There  is  a  man  dead-drunk  on  the  verandah," 
returned  the  new  governess,  without  mincing  her 
words,  and  with  a  little  flash  in  each  steadfast  eye. 

"  Well,  but  he  wouldn't  have  hurt  you!  " 

"  He  hurts  me  as  it  is,  Mr.  Pickering.  I  know 
nothing  quite  so  sad  as  such  sights,  and  I've  seen 


188  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

more  of  them  on  my  way  up  here  than  ever  in  my 
life  before." 

"  Come,  come,  don't  tell  me  it'-s  worse  than  the 
old  country,"  said  the  squatter,  laughing,  "  or  we  shall 
fight  all  the  way  back!  Now,  will  you  jump  up  and 
come  with  me  while  I  get  your  luggage;  or  shall  we 
meet  at  the  post-office  over  yonder  on  the  other  side?  " 

The  girl  looked  round,  following  the  direction  of 
the  pointed  whip.  "  Yes,  at  the  post-office,  I  think," 
and  then  she  smiled.  "  It  may  seem  an  affectation, 
Mr.  Pickering,  but  I'd  really  rather  not  go  near  the 
hotel  again." 

"  "Well,  perhaps  you're  right.  I'll  be  with  you  in 
five  minutes,  Miss  Winfrey." 

He  flicked  his  horses:  and  in  those  five  minutes 
the  new  governess  made  a  friend  for  life  in  poor  Miss 
Crisp  the  little  old  post-mistress.  It  was  an  uncon- 
scious conquest;  indeed,  she  was  thinking  more  of 
her  employer  than  of  anything  she  was  saying;  but 
this  Miss  Winfrey  had  a  way  of  endearing  herself  to 
persons  who  liked  being  taken  seriously,  due  perhaps 
to  her  own  habit  of  taking  herself  very  seriously  in- 
deed. Nevertheless,  she  was  thinking  of  the  squatter. 
He  was  a  little  rough,  though  less  so,  she  thought, 
in  his  flannel  shirt  and  wide-awake,  than  in  the  high 
collar  and  frock-coat  which  he  had  worn  at  their  pre- 
vious interview  in  Melbourne.  On  the  whole  she  liked 
him  well  enough  to  wish  to  bring  him  to  her  way  of 
looking  at  so  distressing  a  spectacle  as  that  of  a  drunk- 


TILE   GOVERNESS   AT   GREENBUSH  189 

en  man.  And  it  so  happened  that  no  sooner  had  she 
taken  her  seat  beside  him  in  the  buggy  than  he  re- 
turned of  his  own  accord  to  the  subject  which  was 
uppermost  in  her  mind. 

"  It  was  one  of  my  own  men,  Miss  Winfrey." 

"  The  man  on  the  verandah?  " 

"Yes.  They  call  him  Cattle-station  Bill.  He 
looks  after  what  we  call  the  Cattle  Station — an  out- 
station  of  ours  where  there  are  nothing  but  sheep, 
by  the  way — on  the  other  side  of  the  township.  He 
has  a  pretty  lonely  life  over  there.  It's  only  natural 
he  should  knock  down  a  cheque  now  and  again." 

The  governess  looked  puzzled.  "  What  does  it 
mean — knocking  down  a  cheque?  " 

"  Mean?  W^ell,  we  pay  everything  by  cheque  up 
here,  d'you  see?  So  when  a  man's  put  in  his  six 
months'  work,  say,  he  rolls  up  his  swag  and  walks  in 
for  his  cheque.  Twenty-six  pounds  it  would  be  for 
the  six  months,  less  a  few  shillings,  we'll  say,  for  to- 
bacco. And  most  of  'em  take  their  cheque  to  the  near- 
est grog  shanty  and  drink  it  up  in  three  or  four  days." 

Miss  Winfrey  shuddered. 

"And  then?" 

"  Then  they  come  back  to  work  for  another  six 
months." 

"  And  you  take  them  back?  " 

"I  should  think  I  did— when  they're  good  men 
like  Cattle-station  Bill!  It's  nothing.  He'll  be  back 
at  his  hut  by  the  end  of  the  week.    That's  an  under- 


190  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

stood  thing.  Then  in  another  few  months  he'll 
want  another  cheque.  And  so  on,  year  in  and  year 
out." 

Miss  Winfrey  made  no  remark,  but  she  turned  her 
head  and  looked  back.  And  the  recumbent  moleskins 
were  still  a  white  daub  on  the  hotel  verandah,  for  it 
was  hereabouts  that  Pickering  had  mistaken  them 
for  the  young  woman's  skirt.  She  watched  them  out 
of  sight,  and  then  she  sighed. 

"  It's  terrible! " 

"  You'll  get  used  to  it." 

"  Never!  It's  too  awful.  One  ought  to  do  some- 
thing. You  must  let  me  see  what  I  can  do,  Mr.  Picker- 
ing.   The  poor  men!    The  poor  men!  " 

Mr.  Pickering  was  greatly  amused.  He  never  med- 
dled with  his  men.  Their  morals  were  not  his  con- 
cern. In  the  matter  of  their  cheques  his  sense  of 
responsibility  ended  with  his  signature.  The  cheques 
might  come  back  endorsed  by  a  publican  who,  he 
knew,  must  have  practically  stolen  them  from  his 
men's  pockets.  But  he  never  meddled  with  that  pub- 
lican. 

It  was  none  of  his  business;  but  to  find  a  little 
but  of  a  governess  half  inclined  to  make  it  her  busi- 
ness was  a  most  original  experience,  and  it  was  to 
Pickering's  credit  that  he  was  able  to  treat  the  matter 
in  a  spirit  of  pure  good-humour. 

"I  rather  think  our  brats  will  take  you  all  your 
time,"  said  he,  laughing  heartily.    "  Still,  I'll  let  you 


THE  GOVERNESS  AT  GREENBUSH    191 

know  next  time  Bill  comes  in  for  a  cheque,  and  you 
shall  talk  to  him  like  a  mother.  He's  a  very  good- 
looking  young  fellow,  1  may  tell  you  that!  " 

Miss  Winfrey  was  about  to  answer,  quite  seriously, 
that  she  would  be  only  too  glad  of  an  opportunity 
of .  speaking  to  the  poor  man;  but  the  last  remark 
made  the  rest,  from  her  point  of  view,  unanswerable. 
Moreover,  it  happened  to  hurt,  and  for  a  reason  that 
need  be  no  secret.  Her  own  romance  was  over.  She 
had  no  desire  for  another.  That  one  had  left  her 
rather  a  solemn  young  woman  with,  however,  a  per- 
fectly sincere  desire  to  do  some  good  in  the  world,  to 
undo  some  of  the  evil. 

The  squatter  repeated  this  conversation  to  his  wife, 
who  had  not,  however,  his  own  good-nature.  "  I  don't 
see  what  business  it  was  of  Miss  "Winfrey's,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Pickering,  who  had  not  been  with  her  husband 
when  he  selected  the  governess.  "  It  was  quite  a  pre- 
sumption on  her  part  to  enter  into  such  a  discussion, 
and  I  should  have  let  her  know  it  had  I  been  there. 
But  I  am  afraid  she  is  inclined  to  presume,  James. 
Those  remarks  of  hers  about  poetry  were  hardly  the 
thing  for  her  first  meal  at  our  fable.  Did  you  hear 
her  correct  me  when  I  mentioned  Lewis  William 
Morris?    She  said  they  were  two  separate  men!  " 

"  She  probably  knew  what  she  was  talking  about. 
I  didn't  go  and  engage  a  fool,  my  dear." 

"  It  was  a  piece  of  impudence,"  said  Mrs.  Pickering 
hotly;  "  and  after  what  you  have  told  me  now,  James, 


192  SOME    PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

I  can't  say  I  feel  too  favourably  impressed  with  Miss 
Winfrey." 

"  Then  I'm  very  sorry  I  told  you  anything,"  re- 
torted Pickering  with  reflected  warmth.  "  The  girl's 
all  right;  but  you  always  were  ready  to  take  a  preju- 
dice against  anybody.  Just  you  wait  a  bit!  That 
girl's  a  character.  I'll  wager  she  makes  your  young- 
sters mind  her  as  they've  never  minded  anybody  in 
their  lives! " 

The  lady  sighed;  she  had  poor  health  and  an  irri- 
table, weak  nature;  and  her  "  youngsters  "  had  cer- 
tainly never  "  minded  "  their  mother.  She  took  her 
husband's  advice;  she  waited;  and  such  was  the  order 
that  presently  obtained  among  her  band  of  little 
rebels,  and  so  great  and  novel  the  relief  and  rest  which 
crept  into  her  own  daily  life,  that  for  many  weeks — 
in  fact,  until  the  novelty  wore  off — Miss  Winfrey 
could  do  no  wrong,  and  the  children's  mother  had  not 
words  good  enough  for  their  new  governess. 

The  children  themselves  were  somewhat  slower  to 
embrace  this  optimistic  view.  They  came  to  it  at  last, 
but  only  by  the  steep  and  stony  path  of  personal 
defeat  and  humiliation.  Miss  Winfrey  had  the  wit 
to  avoid  the  one  irretrievable  mistake  on  the  part  of 
all  such  as  would  govern  as  well  as  teach.  She  never 
tried  for  an  immediate  popularity  with  her  pupils, 
which  she  felt  would  be  purchased  at  the  price  of  all 
future  influence  and  power.  On  the  contrary,  she  was 
content  to  be  hated  for  weeks  and  feared  for  months: 


THE  GOVEBNESS  AT  UKEENBUSH     193 

but  the  tear  gradually  subsided  in  respect;  and  pres- 
ently respect  was  joined  by  love.  Now,  love  is  the 
teacher's  linal  triumph.  And  little  Miss  Winfrey  won 
hers  in  the  face  of  sufficiently  formidable  odds. 

It  was  a  case  of  four  to  one.  Three  of  the  four 
were  young  men,  however,  with  whom  the  young 
woman  who  is  worth  her  salt  well  knows  how  to  deal. 
These  young  men  were  employed  upon  the  station, 
and  they  had  petted  and  spoilt  the  children  pretty 
persistently  hitherto.  It  had  been  their  favourite  re- 
laxation after  the  day's  work  in  the  saddle  or  at  the 
drafting  yards.  Miss  Winfrey  took  to  playing  their 
accompaniments  as  they  had  never  been  played  be- 
fore, and  very  soon  it  was  tacitly  agreed  among  them 
that  the  good-will  of  the  governess  was  a  better  thing 
than  the  adoration  of  her  class.  So  the  three  gave 
very  little  trouble  after  all;  but  the  fourth  made  up 
for  their  defection;  and  the  fourth  knew  better  how 
to  fight  a  woman. 

She  was  one  herself. 

Millicent  Pickering  was  the  children's  half-sister, 
the  only  child  of  her  father's  first  marriage.  She  was 
a  sallow,  weedy,  and  yet  attractive-looking  girl  of 
nineteen,  with  some  very  palpable  faults,  which,  how- 
ever, were  redeemed  by  the  saving  merit  of  a  super- 
latively good  temper.  She  loved  a  joke,  and  her  idea 
of  one  was  quite  different  from  that  of  Miss  Winfrey, 
who,  to  be  sure,  was  not  a  little  deficient  in  this  very 
respect.  Millicent  found  her  sense  of  humour  best  sat- 
13 


194  SOME   PEltSONS   UNKNOWN 

isfied  by  the  enormities  of  her  little  brothers  and  sis- 
ters. She  rallied  them  openly  upon  the  punishments 
inflicted  by  their  governess;  she  was  in  notorious  and 
demoralising  sympathy  with  the  young  offenders. 
Out  of  school  she  encouraged  them  in  every  branch  of 
wickedness;  and,  for  an  obvious  reason,  was  ever  the 
first  to  lead  them  into  temptations  which  now  ended 
in  disgrace.  She  was,  of  course,  herself  the  greatest 
child  of  them  all;  and  at  last  Miss  Winfrey  told  her  so 
in  as  many  words.  She  would  have  spoken  earlier, 
but  that  she  feared  to  jeopardise  her  influence  by  risk- 
ing a  defeat.  But  when  the  great  girl  took  to  inter- 
rupting the  very  lesson  with  her  overgrown  buffoon- 
eries, in  the  visible  vicinity  of  the  open  schoolroom 
door,  the  time  was  come  to  beat  or  be  beaten  once  and 
for  all. 

"  Come  in,  Miss  Pickering,"  said  the  governess 
suavely,  though  her  heart  was  throbbing.  "  I  think  I 
should  have  the  opportunity  of  laughing  too." 

The  girl  strode  in,  and  the  laughter  rose  louder 
than  before.  But,  however  excruciatingly  funny  her 
antics  might  have  been  outside,  they  were  not  con- 
tinued within. 

"  Well?  "  said  Miss  Winfrey  at  length. 

"  Well?  "  retorted  Millicent  with  mere  sauce. 

"  You  great  baby! "  cried  the  governess,  with  a 
flush  and  a  flash  that  came  like  lightning.  "You 
deserve  to  have  your  hair  taken  down,  and  be  put 
back  into  short  dresses  and  a  pinafore!  " 


THE  GOVERNESS  AT  GREENBUSH    195 

"And  sent  to  you?" 

a  And  sent  to  me." 

"  Eight  you  are!    I'll  come  this  afternoon." 

And  she  did.  When  school  began  again,  at  three 
o'clock,  Millicent  led  the  way,  with  her  hair  down  and 
her  dress  up,  and  in  her  hands  the  largest  slate  she 
could  find;  and  on  her  face  a  kind  of  determined 
docility,  exquisitely  humorous  to  the  expectant  young 
eyes  behind  the  desks.  But  Millicent  had  reckoned 
without  her  brains,  and  that  in  more  senses  than  one. 
She  was  an  exceedingly  backward  young  person;  she 
had  never  been  properly  taught,  and  no  one  knew  this 
better  than  the  little  governess.  First  in  one  simple 
subject,  then  in  another,  the  ignorance  of  the  girl 
was  mercilessly  exposed;  first  by  one  child,  then  by 
another,  she  was  corrected  and  enlightened  on  some 
elementary  point;  and  finally,  when  they  all  stood  up 
and  took  places,  Miss  Millicent  sank  to  the  bottom  of 
the  class  in  five  minutes.  The  absurd  figure  that  she 
cut  there,  however,  with  the  next  child  no  higher 
than  her  waist,  quite  failed  to  appeal  to  her  usually 
ready  sense  of  humour;  seeing  which,  Miss  Winfrey 
incontinently  dismissed  the  class;  but  Millicent  re- 
mained behind. 

"I  give  you  best,"  said  she,  holding  out  a  large 
hand  with  a  rather  laboured  smile.  "Let's  be 
friends." 

"  I  have  always  wanted  to,"  said  the  victor,  with  a 
suspicious  catch  in  her  voice.     Next  moment  she 


196  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  And  that  war  was 
won. 

Millicent  had  long  needed  such  a  friend;  but  this 
new  influence  was  a  better  thing  for  her  than  any  one 
ever  knew.  She  happened  to  be  fond  of  somebody 
who  was  very  fond  of  her;  and  having  one  of  those 
impulsive  natures  which  fly  from  one  extreme  to  the 
other,  she  told  Miss  Winfrey  that  very  night  all  about 
it.  And  Miss  Winfrey  advised.  And  on  the  next 
monthly  visitation  of  a  certain  rabbit  inspector  to 
Greenbush  Station  the  light-hearted  Millicent  suc- 
ceeded in  reconciling  her  sporting  spirit  to  what  she 
termed  the  "  dry-hash  "  of  a  serious  engagement. 

But  not  for  long.  As  the  more  solemn  side  of  the 
matter  came  home  to  her,  the  light  heart  grew  heavy 
with  vague  alarms,  and  so  bitterly  did  the  young  girl 
resent  her  entirely  natural  apprehensions,  that  cause 
and  effect  became  confounded  in  her  soul,  now  calling, 
as  she  thought,  for  its  surrendered  freedom.  Her 
depression  was  terrible,  and  yet  more  terrible  her  dis- 
appointment in  herself.  She  could  not  be  in  love, 
or,  if  she  were,  then  love  was  not  what  it  was  painted 
by  all  the  poets  whose  works  the  sympathetic  Miss 
Winfrey  now  put  into  her  hands.  Thus  the  first 
month  passed.  Then  the  man  came  again,  and  in  his 
presence  her  doubt  lay  low  in  her  heart;  but  when 
he  was  gone  it  rose  up  blacker  than  before,  and  the 
girl  went  near  to  madness  with  keeping  it  to  herself. 
It  was  only  the  agony  of  an  ignorant  young  egoism 


THE  GOVERNESS  AT  GEEENBUSH    TJ7 

in  the  twilight  state  oi'  the  betrothed,  looking  back- 
ward with  regret  for  yesterday's  freedom,  instead  of 
forward  faithfully  to  a  larger  life.  But  this  never 
struck  her  until  she  brought  her  broodings  to  her 
friend  Miss  Winfrey,  when  one  flesh  could  endure 
them  no  longer. 

M  Lbs  Winfrey  was  surprised.  She  had  not  suspected 
so  much  soul  in  such  a  setting.  She  was  also  sorry, 
for  she  liked  the  man.  He  had  kind  eyes  and  simple 
ways,  and  yet  some  unmistakable  signs  of  the  sort 
of  strength  which  appealed  to  the  governess  and 
would  be  good  for  Milly.  And  lastly,  Miss  Winfrey 
was  strangely  touched:  for  here  was  her  own  case 
over  again. 

The  girl  said  that  she  could  never  marry  him, 
that  there  was  no  love  in  her  for  any  man,  that  she 
must  break  off  the  engagement  instantly  and  for  all 
time;  the  governess  had  said  the  same  thing  at  her 
age,  and  had  repented  it  ever  since.  The  governess 
turned  down  the  lamp,  for  it  was  late  at  night  in  the 
schoolroom,  and  she  told  the  girl  her  own  story. 
This  had  more  weight  than  a  hundred  arguments. 
Half-way  through,  Millicent  took  Miss  Winfrey's 
hand  and  held  it  to  the  end;  at  the  very  end  she  kissed 
the  governess  and  made  her  a  promise. 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  said  Miss  Winfrey,  kissing 
Milly.  "  That  was  all  1  wanted  you  to  say.  Only  try 
for  a  time  to  think  less  of  yourself  and  more  of  him! 
Then  all  will  be  well;  and  you  may  forget  my  con- 


198  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

temptible  little  story.  You're  the  first  to  whom  I've 
ever  told  it  as  it  really  was." 

"  And  you  never  saw  him  again  ?  " 

"  Not  from  that  day  to  this." 

"  But  you  may,  dear  Miss  Winfrey.    You  may!  " 

'"  It  isn't  likely,"  said  the  governess,  turning  up 
the  lamp.  "  I  came  out  here  to — forget.  He  is  a  full- 
blown doctor  by  now,  and  no  doubt  happily  married." 

"  Never!  "  cried  Millicent. 

"  Long  ago,"  laughed  Miss  Winfrey.  "  The  worse 
they  take  it  at  the  time  the  sooner  they  marry.  That 
is — men;  and  you  can't  alter  them." 

"I  don't  believe  it's  every  man,"  said  the  young 
girl  stoutly.    "  I  don't  even  believe  it's — yours." 

Miss  Winfrey  bent  her  head  to  hide  her  eyes. 
"  Sometimes,"  she  whispered,  "  I  don't  believe  so 
(•it  her." 

"  And  if — you  met — and  all  was  right?  " 

The  governess  got  to  her  feet.  Her  face  was  lifted, 
and  the  tears  transfigured  it.  It  was  white  and  shin- 
ing like  the  angel-faces  in  a  little  child's  dream.  And 
her  lips  trembled  with  the  trembling  words :  "  I 
should  ask  him  to  forgive  me  for  the  wrong  I  did 
him.  I  would  humiliate  myself  as  I  humiliated  him. 
It  would  be  my  pride.  He  might  not  care;  but  he 
should  know  that  I  had — all  along!  " 


THE  GOVERNESS  AT  GKEENBUSH    199 


n 

Miss  Winfrey  grew  very  fond  of  her  schoolroom. 
There,  as  the  young  men  told  her,  she  was  "  her  own 
boss,"  with  a  piano,  though  a  poor  one,  all  to  herself; 
and  a  desk,  the  rather  clumsy  handiwork  of  the  eldest 
boy,  yet  her  very  own,  and  full  of  her  own  things. 
She  took  an  old  maid's  delight  in  orderly  arrangement, 
and,  for  that  matter,  was  not  loath  to  own,  with  her 
most  serious  air,  that  she  quite  intended  to  be  an  old 
maid.  But  what  she  liked  best  about  the  schoolroom 
was  its  fundamental  privacy.  It  formed  a  detached 
building,  and  had  formerly  been  the  station  store. 
The  old  dining-room  was  the  present  store,  which  was 
entered  by  the  "  white  verandah,"  so  known  in  con- 
tradistinction to  the  deep,  trellised  shelter — which, 
however,  Mrs.  Pickering  insisted  on  calling  the  "  pi- 
azza " — belonging  to  a  later  building.  The  white 
verandah  was  narrow  and  bald  by  comparison.  But 
the  young  men  still  burnt  their  evening  incense  upon 
it,  while  Millicent  and  the  governess  preferred  it  at 
all  hours  of  the  day.  It  was  just  opposite  the  school- 
room, for  one  thing;  for  another,  Mrs.  Pickering  but 
seldom  set  foot  on  the  white  verandah,  and  the  peevish 
lady  was  not  a  popular  character  in  the  homestead  of 
which  she  was  mistress. 

She  no  longer  approved  of  the  new  governess. 
Miss  Winfrey's  singular  success  with  the  children  had 


200  SOME   PEESONS   UNKNOWN 

been  quite  sufficient  to  alienate  their  mother's  sym- 
pathies, or  rather  to  revive  her  prejudices.  Her  feel- 
ing in  the  matter  was  not,  perhaps,  altogether  in- 
human. It  is  difficult  to  appreciate  the  expert  ma- 
nipulation of  material  upon  which  we  ourselves  have 
tried  an  ineffectual  hand.  It  is  odious  to  see  another 
win  through  sheer  discipline  to  a  popularity  which 
all  one's  own  indulgence  has  failed  to  secure.  These 
experiences  were  Mrs.  Pickering's  just  deserts,  but 
that  did  not  lessen  their  sting.  The  lady  became  not 
unnaturally  jealous  of  her  children's  friend,  whose 
society  they  now  obviously  preferred  to  her  own. 
With  former  governesses  not  a  day  had  passed  with- 
out one  child  or  another  coming  to  its  mother  with 
some  whining  tale.  There  were  no  such  complaints 
now;  but  the  mother  missed  them  as  she  would  have 
missed  so  many  habitual  caresses;  for  it  made  her  feel 
that  she  was  no  longer  everything  to  her  children. 
It  is  easier  to  understand  her  feelings  than  to  forgive 
their  expression.  She  took  to  snubbing  the  governess 
in  the  pupils'  presence.  It  is  true  that,  as  the  young 
men  said,  Mrs.  Pickering  did  not  "  get  much  change  " 
out  of  little  Miss  Winfrey.  The  girl  was  well  quali- 
fied to  take  care  of  herself.  But  she  was  more  sensi- 
tive than  she  cared  to  show.  Her  whole  soul  shrank 
from  the  small  contentions  which  were  forced  upon 
her;  they  hurt  her  equally  whether  she  won  or  she 
lost.  Still  it  was  less  horrid  to  win,  and  one  little  vic- 
tory gave  the  governess  distinct  satisfaction. 


THE   GOVERNESS   AT   GltEENBLISH  201 

Mrs.  Pickering  took  it  into  her  head  that  the  chil- 
dren wen;  worked  too  hard.  So  one  afternoon  she 
walked  into  the  schoolroom  and  told  them  all  that 
they  might  go — nearly  an  hour  before  the  time.  But 
not  a  child  stirred. 

"  You  may  all  run  away,"  repeated  their  mother. 
"  Do  you  hear  me?    Then  why  don't  you  move?  " 

The  eldest  boy  shuffled  awkwardly  in  his  place. 
"  Please,  mother,  it's  poetry-hour,  and  wre  only  have  it 
once  a  week." 

Mrs.  Pickering,  relying  on  the  little  ones,  now 
called  for  a  show  of  hands.  But  the  very  infants  were 
against  her;  and  she  left  the  room  with  a  bitter  glance 
at  the  silent  governess,  who  after  a  moment's  consid- 
eration dismissed  the  class  herself.  Meantime  the 
irate  lady  had  gone  straight  to  her  husband. 

"  Miss  Winfrey  is  becoming  unendurable,"  she  told 
him  in  the  tone  of  personal  reproach  which  had  al- 
ready made  the  unlucky  squatter  curse  his  choice  of  a 
governess.  "  The  poor  children  are  positively  fright- 
ened to  death  of  her!  I  went  in  to  let  them  out  of 
school;  no  one  but  an  inhuman  monster  would  keep 
them  in  on  an  afternoon  like  this;  and  actually,  not 
one  of  them  dared  to  move  without  Miss  Winfrey's 
permission!  Harry  muttered  something  to  the  effect 
that  they  would  rather  finish  the  lesson,  and  the  rest 
sat  still,  but  you  may  be  sure  they  knew  it  was  either 
that  or  being  punished  afterwards.  How  I  hate  such 
severities!    As  for  that  woman  herself,  she  sat  like  a 


202  SOME   PEESONS    UNKNOWN 

mule  without  saying  anything.  Ah!  I  see  she's 
thought  better  of  it,  and  let  them  out  herself;  to  show 
that  her  authority's  superior  to  mine,  I  suppose! 
Keally,  that's  the  last  straw!  " 

Pickering  met  his  wife  judiciously,  but  not  by  any 
means  half-way.  He  knew  what  she  meant;  he  was 
not  himself  entirely  enamoured  of  Miss  Winfrey.  She 
had  spoken  to  him  about  the  boys  seeing  too  much  of 
the  men  out  mustering  on  Saturdays,  a  point  on 
which  the  father  deemed  himself  the  best  judge. 
She  had  too  many  opinions  of  her  own;  but  when  all 
was  said,  she  was  an  admirable  governess.  He  dwelt 
upon  the  general  improvement  in  the  children  under 
Miss  Winfrey.  He  had  the  sense  to  ignore  their  very 
evident  affection  for  that  martinet.  Another  change 
might  be  a  very  good  thing  in  a  few  months'  time, 
but  at  present  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities.  Christ- 
mas was  coming  on.  It  would  be  very  easy  to  let 
Miss  Winfrey  see  that  her  daily  supervision  was  not 
required  during  the  holidays.  She  could  have  the 
time  to  herself. 

She  did  have  the  time  to  herself,  and  a  very  poor 
time  it  was.  The  parents  gave  out  that  they  intended 
to  see  something  of  their  young  people  while  they  had 
the  chance.  And  to  broaden  the  hint,  as  if  that  were 
necessary,  they  studiously  refrained  from  inviting 
Miss  Winfrey  to  join  in  the  daily  entertainment.  Now 
it  was  a  family  visit  to  a  neighbouring  station,  with 
four  horses  in  the  big  trap;  now  a  picnic  in  the  scrub, 


THE   GOVERNESS  AT   (iUKlONBUSH  203 

now  impromptu  races  on  the  township  course.  The 
governess  spent  the  days  in  her  own  schoolroom, 
with  little  intervals  on  the  white  verandah.  Milli- 
cent's  rabbit  inspector  was  at  Greenbush,  so  Miss  Win- 
frey saw  nothing  of  Millicent  either.  All  was  now 
well  between  those  two:  on  the  day  he  went,  she  rode 
with  him  to  the  boundary  fence,  and  then  joined  the 
picnic  party  in  the  Forest  Paddock. 

"  Where's  Miss  Winfrey?  "  cried  the  girl,  from  her 
saddle,  as  she  cantered  up  to  the  little  group  about 
the  crackling  fire. 

The  children  looked  unhappy. 

"  She's  at  home,"  said  Harry. 

Millicent  asked  why. 

"  Because  it's  holidays,"  answered  Mrs.  Pickering, 
looking  up  from  the  basket  which  she  was  unpacking. 
"  Because  we've  come  out  to  enjoy  ourselves." 

Millicent  ran  over  the  ring  of  little  wistful  faces, 
and  a  soft  laugh  curled  her  lips.  She  could  hear  her 
father  gathering  branches  in  the  scrub,  and  talking  to 
the  only  young  man  who  had  not  gone  away  for  his 
holidays.  She  wondered  whether  she  should  dis- 
mount at  all;  her  heart  went  out  to  her  friend  all 
alone  at  the  homestead;  she,  too,  had  neglected  her 
these  last  few  days. 

"  When  did  Miss  Winfrey  spoil  a  day's  enjoy- 
ment? "  the  girl  demanded.  "  She  would  have  added 
to  it." 

"  You  may  think  so.    I  chose  not  to  risk  it." 


204  SOME    PERSONS    UNKNOWN 

"  But   surely   you   gave    her   a   chance    of   com- 

ing?  " 

"  Xot  I,  indeed!  The  children  see  quite  enough  of 
their  governess  in  school.  Harry,  darling,  there's  the 
water  boiling  at  last." 

But  Millicent  was  boiling  too.  "  That  settles  it," 
she  exclaimed  with  a  quick  flush.  "  Good-bye,  all  of 
you!  "    And  she  was  gone  at  a  hand-gallop. 

Little  love  was  to  lose  between  the  girl  and  her 
step-mother.  Millicent  was  rather  glad  than  other- 
wise to  turn  her  back  upon  a  party  which  did  not  in- 
clude the  one  daily  companion  who  was  now  entirely 
congenial  to  her,  while  if  anybody  could  fill  at  all 
the  gaping  blank  left  by  her  lover's  departure,  it  was 
Miss  Winfrey,  who  was  always  so  sympathetic,  so 
understanding.  To  that  same  sympathy  the  young 
girl  felt  that  she  owed  her  present  abiding  and  in- 
creasing happiness,  and  again  her  heart  went  out  to 
the  counsellor  who  had  known  no  such  counsel  in  her 
own  black  hour  of  doubt  and  trepidation.  Otherwise 
— and  Milly  sighed.  She  knew  the  whole  story  now. 
Her  friend  had  spoken  of  it  a  second  and  a  third  time, 
and  the  speaking  had  seemed  to  do  her  good.  It  was 
five  years  ago.  The  young  man  had  been  a  medical 
student  then.  And  now  his  penitent  false  love  could 
see  him  only  as  a  thriving  doctor — and  a  married 
man. 

"  I  would  give  anything  to  find  him,"  thought  the 
girl  who  was  happy,  as  she  stooped  to  open  the  home- 


TIIE   GOVERNESS   AT    CIKEENBUSH  205 

paddock  gate.  "  I  know — something  tells  me — that 
he  is  true!" 

She  cantered  to  the  homestead,  standing  high  and 
hot  on  its  ridge  of  sand,  with  only  a  few  dry  pines 
sprouting  out  of  the  yard.  The  year  was  burning  it- 
self out  in  a  succession  of  torrid  days,  of  which  this 
was  the  worst  hitherto.  The  sky  was  prodigiously, 
ridiculously  blue,  with  never  a  flake  of  cloud  from 
rim  to  rim.  The  wind  came  from  the  north  as  from 
an  open  oven.  And  Millicent's  dog  was  running 
under  the  very  girths  of  her  horse,  whose  noon-day 
shadow  she  could  not  see. 

She  watered  both  animals  at  the  tank,  and  then 
rode  on  to  the  horse-yard;  but,  ere  she  reached  it, 
was  much  struck  by  the  sound  of  a  sweet  voice  sing- 
ing in  the  distance.  It  seemed  a  queer  thing,  but 
the  young  woman  from  England  was  standing  the 
Eiverina  summer  far  better  than  those  who  had  been 
born  there.  She  could  sit  and  sing  on  a  day  like 
this! 

On  her  way  on  foot  from  the  horse-yard  to  the 
schoolroom  Millicent  stood  on  her  shadow  to  listen 
to  the  song.  The  governess  sang  very  seldom;  she 
liked  better  to  play  accompaniments  for  the  young 
men,  though  she  had  a  charming,  trained  voice  of  her 
own.  Millicent  had  never  heard  her  use  it,  as  she  was 
doing  now,  without  a  known  soul  within  earshot  save 
the  Chinaman  in  the  kitchen. 

The  heat  of  the  sand  struck  through  the  young 


206  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

girl's  boots.    Yet  still  she  stood,  her  head  bent,  and 
at  last  caught  a  few  of  the  words: 

" .     .     .     in  the  lime-tree, 
The  wind  is  floating  through  : 
And  oh !  the  night,  ray  darling,  is  sighing — 
Sighing  for  you,  for  you." 

A  verse  was  finished.  Millicent  crept  nearer.  She 
had  never  heard  such  tender  singing.  Three  or  four 
simple  bars  and  it  began  again: 

"  O  think  not  I  can  forget  you ; 

I  could  not  though  I  would ; 
I  see  you  in  all  around  me, 

The  stream,  the  night,  the  wood ; 
The  flowers  that  slumber  so  gently, 

The  stars  above  the  blue. 
Oh !  heaven  itself,  my  darling,  is  praying — 

Praying  for  you,  for  you." 

The  voice  sank  very  low,  its  pathos  was  infinite, 
yet  the  listener  heard  every  word.  There  were  no 
more.  Millicent  dried  her  eyes,  and  went  tripping 
over  her  habit  through  the  open  schoolroom  door. 
There  sat  the  governess,  with  wrung  face  and  grey 
eyes  all  intensity. 

"  My  dear,  it  was  divine! " 

"  You  heard!    I'm  sorry." 

"  But  why?  " 

"  I  never  sing  that  song." 

"Why,  again?" 

The  fixed  eyes  fell.    "  It  was — his  favourite.    .    .    . 


THE  GOVERNESS  AT  GREENBUSH     207 

The  music  is  better  than  the  words,  I  think;  don't 
you?    But  then  the  words  are  a  translation." 

Complete  change  of  tone  forbade  further  question- 
ing. But  once  more  the  younger  girl  felt  horribly 
discontented  with  her  own  really  adequate  affection 
for  the  honest  rabbit  inspector.  It  seemed  such  a  lit- 
tle thing  beside  the  passion  of  her  friend. 

Not  long  after  this  Millicent  was  reclining  on  a 
deck-chair  under  shelter  of  the  white  verandah.  The 
heat  was  still  intense,  and  she  was  nearly  asleep.  It 
was  a  Saturday  afternoon,  the  children  were  abroad  in 
the  paddocks,  but  their  governess  was  in  her  own 
schoolroom,  for  once  as  enervated  as  Millicent  her- 
self, who  could  just  see  the  hem  of  her  frock  through 
the  open  door. 

.Millicent  had  closed  her  eyes.  A  spur  clinked  on 
the  verandah,  but  she  was  too  lazy  to  lift  a  lid.  A 
voice  said,  "Is  Mr.  Pickering  about,  please,  miss?" 
with  a  good  accent,  but  in  a  curious  hang-dog  tone. 
She  answered,  "  You'll  find  him  in  the  store,"  with- 
out troubling  to  see  which  of  the  men  it  was.  Then 
came  sleep  .  .  .  then  her  father,  shaking  her  softly, 
and  whispering  in  her  ear. 

"It's  Cattle-station  Bill,"  he  said.  "Wants  an- 
other cheque — hasn't  had  one  since  the  day  Miss 
Winfrey  came.  Where  is  she,  Milly?  She  seemed 
to  think  she'd  like  to  try  her  hand  at  reforming  our 
Bill,  and  now's  her  chance.  He's  only  gone  five 
months  this  time! " 


208  SOME    PERSONS    UNKNOWN 

"  Miss  "Winfrey's  in  the  schoolroom,"  replied  Milly 
drowsily.  "  She  won't  thank  you  for  disturbing  her 
any  more  than  I  do." 

Pickering  stepped  down  into  the  sand  and  crossed 
over  to  the  schoolroom,  dragging  a  shadow  like  a 
felled  pine.  The  man  was  meanwhile  in  the  store, 
where  presently  his  master  rejoined  him  in  fits  of  soft 
and  secret  laughter.  And  Millicent  rubbed  her  eyes, 
because  her  nap  had  been  ruined,  and  bent  them 
upon  the  schoolroom  door,  in  which  the  governess 
now  stood  reading  a  book. 

The  spurs  clinked  again  on  the  verandah,  the  book 
dropped  over  the  way,  the  governess  disappeared  from 
view;  and  Millicent  glanced  from  the  empty  door  to 
the  wearer  of  the  spurs.  He  was  a  handsome  young 
fellow,  with  blue-black  hair  and  moustache,  and  a 
certain  indefinable  distinction  of  which  his  rough 
clothes  could  not  rid  him.  But  his  eyes  were  turned 
sullenly  to  earth,  and  as  he  snatched  his  horse's  reins 
from  the  hook  on  the  verandah-post  with  his  right 
hand,  his  left  crumpled  up  his  cheque  and  rammed  it 
into  his  pocket.  And  a  wild  suspicion  flashed  across 
Millicent  at  that  moment,  to  be  confirmed  the  next. 

"  Last  night  the  nightingale  woke  me," 

gang  the  voice  in  the  schoolroom; 

"  La9t  night,  when  all  was  still, 
It  sang  in  the  golden  moonlight, 
From  out  the  woodland  hill." 


THE  GOVERNESS  AT  GREENBUSH    209 

Milly  had  not  taken  her  eyes  from  the  sullen  hand- 
some stockman  standing  almost  at  her  feet.  His  left 
hand  was  still  in  his  pocket;  his  right  had  the  reins, 
but  was  still  outstretched  in  front  of  him — as  though 
petrified — while  a  white,  scared  face  turned  this  way 
and  that  with  the  perspiration  welling  from  every 
pore.  Yet  the  smooth  agony  of  the  song  went  on 
without  a  tremor.    .    .    . 

"  And  oh !  the  bird,  my  darling,  was  singing — 
Singing  of  you,  of  you." 

As  the  verse  ended,  the  man  shivered  from  head 
to  foot,  then  flung  himself  into  the  saddle,  and  Milli- 
cent  watched  him  ride  headlong  towards  the  home- 
paddock  gate.  She  lost  sight  of  him,  however,  long 
before  he  reached  it,  and  then  she  knew  that  Miss 
Winfrey  was  still  singing  her  song  in  a  loud,  clear 
voice.  Could  she  be  mistaken?  It  was  a  sufficiently 
wild  idea.  Could  it  be  nothing  but  coincidence  after 
all?    Again  she  caught  the  words: 

"  I  think  of  you  in  the  daytime, 

I  dream  of  you  by  night, 
I  wake,  and  would  you  were  here,  love, 

And  tears  are  blinding  my  sight. 
I  hear  a  low  breath  in  the  lime-tree " 

The  sweet  air,  the  tender  words,  snapped  short 
together.      Millicent    sprang   from    her    deck-chair, 
heard  a  fall  as  she  ran,  and  found  the  governess  in  a 
swoon  upon  the  schoolroom  floor. 
14 


210  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 


III 

"What  did  lie  do?" 

They  were  the  first  faint  words  that  fell  from  the 
bloodless  lips,  and  Millicent  was  much  too  thankful  to 
think  twice  of  their  meaning.  Besides,  she  had  things 
to  ask  the  governess.  How  was  she  now?  Was  her 
head  too  low?    Had  she  hurt  herself  as  she  fell? 

"What  did  he  do?"  repeated  the  faint  voice  a 
little  less  faintly. 

"  Dear,  I  will  tell  you  in  a  minute " 

"  Tell  me  now.  What  did  he  do?  Did  he— re- 
member? " 

Millicent  did  her  best  to  describe  the  effect  of  the 
song  upon  the  man.    She  omitted  nothing. 

The  governess  gave  a  great  sigh.  "  Thank  God!  " 
she  said.  "  There  was  no  time  to  think.  It  was  all 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  But  I  knew  that  you 
were  there,  that  you'd  see.  And  you  saw  all  that;  it 
was  all  there  for  you  to  see! "  She  closed  her  eyes, 
and  her  lips  moved  in  further  thanksgiving. 

"  Dear,  I  saw — his  soul,"  said  Milly  timidly;  "  it  is 
not  dead.    I  saw  more — I  saw  his  love!  " 

The  fair  head  shook. 

"  No;  that  must  be  dead." 

"Then  why  should  it  move  him  so?  Why  should 
he  mind?  What  could  the  song  be  to  him,  if  you 
were  nothing?    Dear,  you  are  everything — still!  " 


THE   GOVERNESS   AT    (JRKKMU'SII  211 

The  fair  head  shook  again,  and  more  decidedly. 

"It's  in) possible.  But  I  may  do  something.  1 
have  brought  him  to  this,  and  I'll  bring  him  back 
from  it,  with  God's  help!" 

And  as  she  stood  up  suddenly,  to  her  last  inch, 
Milicent  again  beheld  the  white,  keen  face  touched 
for  an  ins! ant  with  all  the  radiant  exaltation  of  the 
Angelic  Hosts. 

"  I  might  have  known  it,"  continued  Miss  Winfrey, 
in  a  calmer,  more  contemplative  tone.  "  I  knew  him; 
I  might  have  guessed  the  rest.  Such  troubles  come 
and  go  with  the  ordinary  young  man,  but  Wilfrid  was 
never  that.  His  name  is  Wilfrid  Ferrers,  Milly — your 
Cattle-station  Bill!  As  I  have  told  you,  his  father 
was  a  country  clergyman;  and  clergymen's  sons  are 
always  the  worst.  Willie  had  been  rather  wild  before 
I  knew  him;  he  used  to  tell  me  all  about  it,  for  he 
was  the  most  open-hearted  boy  in  all  the  world,  and 
could  keep  nothing  to  himself.  If  he  could,  he 
wouldn't;  for  sail  under  his  true  colours  he  must,  he 
used  to  say,  even  if  they  were  the  black  flag.  But 
they  weren't.  His  wildness  was  one-half  high  spirits, 
and  the  other  half  good-nature.  But  it  showed  the 
man.  He  had  once — I  almost  smile  when  I  remember 
how  he  was  once  before  the  magistrates  for  some 
reckless  boyish  folly  at  the  hospital!  He  would  stick 
at  nothing;  but  he  used  to  say  that  I  could  do  what  I 
liked  with  him,  make  what  I  would  of  him.  And 
what  have  I  made?"  cried  the  unhappy  girl,  in  a 


212  SOME    PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

relapse  as  sudden  as  her  resolve.  "  A  broken  heart — 
a  broken  life! "  She  sank  down  at  one  of  the  desks, 
threw  her  arms  upon  the  slope,  and  wept  passion- 
ately. And  yet  again  she  was  up,  rapping  the  desk 
with  her  knuckles  as  she  would  in  school,  and  star- 
ing masterfully  at  Millicent,  out  of  her  streaming 
eyes. 

"What  am  I  saying?  What  I  have  done,  I  can 
undo;  what  I  have  ruined,  I  can  redeem.  This  is  no 
coincidence,  Milly;  never  tell  me  that!  It  is  God's 
plan.  He  in  His  mercy  means  me  to  repair  my  wrong. 
He  has  given  me  this  chance  ...  I  am  going 
to  my  own  room,  Milly.  I  want  you  to  leave  me 
alone,  dear.  I  want  to  thank  Him  on  my  knees.  And 
then — and  then — I  may  be  shown  how  to  act!  " 

The  livelong  afternoon  she  spent  alone  with  her 
emergency.  The  homestead  was  very  quiet.  The 
young  men  were  still  away.  The  first  sounds  that 
penetrated  to  Miss  Winfrey's  room  were  the  merry 
voices  of  the  returning  children.  But  by  this  time  the 
governess  had  made  up  her  mind.  She  now  arose, 
and  going  forth  in  her  right  mind,  found  Millicent 
hovering  near  the  door.  The  girls  linked  arms,  and 
sauntered  in  the  home-paddock  till  dinner-time. 

"  Here  are  his  tracks,"  cried  Millicent,  halting  in 
excitement.    "  His  galloping  tracks!  " 

The  governess  had  not  the  bush  girl's  eye  for  a 
trail.  To  her,  one  hoof-mark  was  like  another,  and 
they  honeycombed  the  rude  soft  road  in  millions. 


THE  GOVERNESS  AT  GREENBUSH    ZVd 

JJut  she  followed  Milly's  linger  with  thoughtful  eyes, 
and  presently  she  put  a  question. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  eattle  station?" 

"  Fourteen  miles." 

"  Five  to  the  township,  and " 

w  Nine  beyond.  You  turn  to  the  left,  and  take 
the  bridle-path  to  the  right.  Then  you  come  to  a 
gate.  Then  you  cross  a  five-mile  paddock;  and  it's 
half-way  across  the  next  one,  close  to  the  left-hand 
fence." 

"  Thank  you.    I  shall  go  and  see  him." 

"  When  he  gets  back?  " 

"Gets  back!    Where  from?" 

"  The  township,"  said  Milly  reluctantly. 

"Did  he  look  to  you  as  though  he  were  going 
there?" 

"I — I  certainly  thought  so;  but  I  daresay  I  was 
wrong.    I'm  sure  I  was!  "  cried  Milly. 

"I  wish  I  were  sure,"  said  Miss  Winfrey  with  a 
sigh.  "  Yes,  dear,"  she  added,  "  I  shall  wait  until 
he  gets  back." 

A  voice  said  close  behind  them  that  the  dinner  was 
getting  cold.  The  voice  was  Mrs.  Pickering's.  In  the 
sand  they  had  heard  no  step;  both  girls  changed 
colour,  and  in  Mrs.  Pickering's  eye  there  was  a  curi- 
ous light.  But  she  had  never  been  more  civil  to  Miss 
Winfrey  than  at  dinner  that  night;  and  after  dinner 
she  clamoured  for  a  song.  This  was  almost  unprec- 
edented. And  the  song  she  wanted  was  the  song  which 


214  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

she  bad  heard  in  the  distance  that  afternoon.  But 
the  governess  made  her  excuses,  and  went  early  to  her 
own  room. 

An  hour  later  there  was  a  tentative,  light  knock 
at  Miss  Winfrey's  door — and  no  answer.  Mrs.  Picker- 
ing knocked  again  and  louder.  She  carried  a  lighted 
candle;  her  hand  trembled,  and  the  hot  grease  spat- 
tered the  floor.  There  was  still  no  answer,  so  the  lady 
tried  the  door.  It  was  unlocked.  She  walked  in. 
"  I  thought  so! "  muttered  Mrs.  Pickering,  in  a  tri- 
umphant tone.  She  passed  her  candle  over  the  un- 
touched bed;  she  poked  it  into  the  empty  corner; 
and  it  was  some  minutes  before  she  could  bring  her- 
self to  quit  the  deserted  room  that  filled  her  with  so 
shrewd  a  sense  of  personal  satisfaction. 

That  satisfaction  was  only  too  well  founded.  It 
was  then  just  eleven,  and  at  that  very  minute  the 
indomitable  Miss  Winfrey  was  tramping  into  view  of 
the  township  lights.  They  were  few  enough  at  such 
an  hour.  The  Stockman's  Rest,  however,  was  both 
alight  and  alive,  and  midnight  oil  was  burning  in  the 
post-office  over  the  way.  Miss  Winfrey  hesitated, 
bent  her  steps  towards  the  post-office,  hesitated  again, 
and  finally  marched  straight  across  to  the  hotel.  The 
verandah  was  empty.  She  did  not  set  foot  on  it.  She 
could  see  into  the  bar.  .  .  .  She  did  not  think  he 
was  there.    ...    If  only  she  could  be  sure! 

In  the  end  a  groundless  panic  overcame  her,  and 
to  the  post-office  she  fled  pell-mell.    There,  however, 


THE   GOVERNESS   AT   (JKEKNUUSH  215 

she  recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  recall  the  pretext 
with  which  she  had  come  prepared,  and  to  drop  a  sham 
missive  in  the  box  before  knocking. 

It  was  the  post-mistress  herself  who  unlocked  the 
door,  who  stood  on  the  threshold  with  a  lamp  held 
high,  her  kind  face  wrinkled  with  surprise  and  con- 
cern. 

"  Why — bless  the  lot  of  us! — it's  never  Miss  Win- 
frey?" 

"  It  is,"  said  the  governess,  with  a  wan  smile  and  a 
hand  on  her  heart.  "  Will  you  let  me  sit  down,  and — 
not  ask  what  brings  me?  " 

Miss  Crisp  pushed  her  pale  visitor  into  a  chair. 

"  Perhaps  I  know,"  said  she  slyly.  "  That  letter- 
box makes  a  noise!  " 

"Oh,  to  be  so  deceitful!"  moaned  Miss  Winfrey, 
red  with  shame. 

"Tut!"  said  her  ready  dupe;  "I  only  call  it 
venturesome.  I  know  /  shouldn't  like  to  have  all  my 
letters  seen  when  they  make  up  the  station  mail-bag, 
though  I  don't  know  the  thing  that  would  bring  me 
all  this  way  on  foot  at  this  time  of  night.  However, 
that's  your  business,  my  dear,  and  you  shall  have  a 
cup  of  tea  before  I  let  you  go  again." 

The  two  had  often  foregathered  since  the  day  of 
Miss  Winfrey's  arrival,  and  the  fact  made  her  feel 
meaner  than  ever  now.  Yet  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  tell  the  post-mistress  everything,  and  it  was 
either  that  or  the  small  deceit  which  she  was  practis- 


216  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

ing.  Consciously  or  imconsciously  Miss  Crisp  must 
help  her.  They  took  the  same  strong  view  of  the 
dreadful  system  of  knocking  down  cheques;  the 
governess  proceeded  to  turn  this  to  account.  She 
referred  to  their  first  meeting,  and  as  casually  as 
possible  to  Cattle-station  Bill,  saying  the  poor  man 
had  been  in  for  another  cheque  that  afternoon. 

"Indeed?"  said  Miss  Crisp,  seating  herself  till 
the  kettle  should  boil.  "  He  didn't  get  one,  did 
he?" 

"  He  did.  That's  just  it.  What  makes  you  think 
he  did  not?" 

"  He  never  stopped  on  his  way  back." 

"  Not — opposite?  " 

"  No." 

The  girl's  heart  danced. 

"  Are  you  positive?  " 

"  Quite.  He's  back  at  his  hut,  for  I  saw  him  go — 
galloping  like  a  mad  thing!  " 

"What  time  was  that?" 

"  Between  four  and  five." 

The  governess  was  too  clever  to  drop  the  subject 
suddenly.  She  said  she  had  made  sure  the  poor  man's 
cheque  had  gone  the  same  way  as  the  last,  and  so 
obtained  a  second  assurance  that  as  yet,  at  all  events, 
if  had  not.  Miss  Crisp  of  the  post-office  saw  most  of 
what  went  on  in  the  township;  the  rest  was  sure  to 
reach  her  ears.  So  Miss  Winfrey  acted  her  part  to 
the  last,  and  took  leave  of  her  little  old  friend  with  a 


THE  GOVEKNESS  AT  GKEENBUSH    217 

guilty  and  a  penitent  heart.    But  go  on  she  must;  it 
was  too  late  to  turn  back,  too  late  to  think. 

She  made  an  elaborate  detour,  and  struck  the  main 
road  once  more  considerably  to  the  left  of  the  town- 
ship. That  amounted  to  the  same  thing  as  turning 
to  the  left  through  the  township  street.  She  now 
stood  still  to  rehearse  the  remainder  of  Milly's  direc- 
tions, which  she  had  by  heart.  She  was  to  take  the 
bridle-path  to  the  right,  which  would  bring  her  to  a 
gate;  she  was  then  to  cross  a  five-mile  paddock;  and 
— that  was  enough  for  the  present. 

The  bridle-path  was  easily  found.  It  brought  her 
to  the  gate  without  let  or  panic.  But  by  this  time 
the  girl  had  walked  many  miles  and  her  feet  were 
very  sore.  So  she  perched  herself  upon  the  gate, 
and  watched  an  attenuated  moon  float  clear  of  the 
inhospitable  sand-hills,  and  sail  like  a  silver  gondola 
on  a  sombre  sea.  But  as  the  ache  left  her  feet,  it 
crept  into  her  heart  with  all  the  paralysing  wonder  as 
to  what  she  should  say  and  do  when  at  last  she  found 
her  poor  love.  And  immediately  she  jumped  down 
and  continued  her  tramp;  for  she  was  obliged  to  do 
what  she  was  doing;  only  it  was  easier  to  walk,  than 
to  look,  ahead. 

The  thin  moon  was  much  higher  when  its  wan 
rays  shone  once  more  upon  the  wires  of  a  fence  run- 
ning right  and  left  into  the  purple  walls  of  the  night. 
There  were  no  trees  now.  The  vague  immensity  of 
the  plains  was  terrifying  to  the  imaginative  girl,  who 


218  SOME   PERSONS    UNKNOWN 

had  felt  for  some  time  as  if  she  were  walking  by  a 
miracle  upon  a  lonely  sea:  a  miracle  that  might  end 
any  moment:  a  sea  that  supported  her  on  sufferance 
capriciously.  But  with  the  fence  and  the  gate  came 
saner  thought,  and  a  clear  sight  of  the  true  occasion 
for  fear  and  trembling.  She  was  now  within  two  or 
three  miles  of  the  hut.  What  was  she  to  do  when  she 
got  there?  She  did  not  know,  she  would  not  think. 
She  would  get  there  first,  and  leave  the  rest  to  that 
fate  which  had  urged  her  so  far. 

She  went  through  this  gate  without  resting;  she 
was  no  longer  conscious  of  bodily  pains.  She  fol- 
lowed up  the  fence  on  the  left,  according  to  Milly's 
directions,  walking  at  the  top  of  her  speed  for  half 
an  hour.  Then  all  at  once  she  trembled  and  stood 
still:  there  was  the  hut.  It  was  as  though  it  had  risen 
out  of  the  ground,  so  sudden  was  the  sight  of  it,  stand- 
ing against  the  fence,  one  end  towards  her,  scarce 
a  hundred  yards  from  where  she  was.  She  got  no 
farther  just  then;  the  courage  of  her  act  forsook  her 
at  the  last.  She  had  no  more  strength  of  heart  or 
limb,  and  she  sank  to  the  ground  with  a  single  sob. 
The  slip  of  a  moon  was  sickening  in  a  sallow  sky  when 
the  girl  stood  up  next. 

The  dawn  put  new  life  in  her  will.  She  would 
wait  till  sunrise  before  she  made  a  sound.  Mean- 
while, if  the  hut  door  was  open,  she  would  perhaps 
peep  in.  The  door  was  open;  there  was  a  faint  light 
within;  she  could  see  it  through  the  interstices  of  the 


THE  GOVERNESS  \T  GEEENBUSH    219 

logs  as  she  approached;  it  fell  also  in  a  sickly,  flicker- 
ing beam  upon  the  sand  without.  And  after  a  little, 
she  did  peep  in:  to  see  a  "slush-lamp"  burning  on 
the  table,  and,  in  the  wretched  light  of  it,  the  figure 
of  a  man,  with  his  bare  arms  and  hidden  face  upon 
the  table  too.  He  seemed  asleep;  he  might  have  been 
dead. 

"Wilfrid!" 

He  was  alive.  The  white  face  flashed  upon  her. 
The  wild  eyes  started  and  stared.  Then  slowly,  stiffly, 
unsteadily,  he  rose,  he  towered. 

"  So  it  was  you  I  heard — singing  that  song!  " 

"  Yes,  Wilfrid." 

"  It  is  unbelievable.  I've  dreamt  it  often  enough, 
but yes,  it's  you!    So  you've  found  me  out!  " 

"  By  the  merest  accident.  I  had  no  idea  of  it  until 
to-day." 

She  was  terrified  at  his  eyes;  they  hungered,  and 
were  yet  instinct  with  scorn.  He  stuck  his  spurred 
foot  upon  the  box  which  had  been  his  seat,  and  leaned 
forward,  looking  at  her,  his  brown  arms  folded  across 
his  knee. 

"  And  now?  "  he  said. 

She  took  one  step,  and  laid  her  warm  hands  upon 
his  arms,  and  looked  up  at  him  with  flaming  face, 
with  quivering  lips,  with  streaming  eyes.  "  And 
now,"  she  whispered,  "  I  am  ready  to  undo  the 
past " 

"Indeed!" 


220  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

"  To  make  amends — to  keep  my  broken  word !  " 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  longer,  and  his  look 
was  very  soft.  He  had  heard  her  singing,  but  neither 
the  song  nor  the  voice  had  done  more  than  remind 
him  of  her.  And  yet  the  mere  reminder  had  carried 
him  through  the  township  with  a  live  cheque  in  his 
pocket — had  kept  him  sitting  up  all  night  with  his 
false  love's  image  once  more  unveiled  in  his  heart. 
Here  by  a  miracle  was  his  love  herself;  she  loved 
him  now — now  that  she  had  made  him  unworthy  of 
her  love!  Little  wonder  that  he  looked  softly  at  her 
for  a  moment  more;  and  the  next,  still  less  wonder 
that  he  flung  those  hot  hands  from  him,  and  kicked 
the  box  from  under  his  foot,  and  recoiled  with  a 
mocking  laugh  from  the  love  that  had  come  too  late. 

"  Keep  what  you  like,"  he  cried  out  with  a  brutal 
bitterness;  "  only  keep  your  pity  to  yourself!  You 
should  require  it.    I  don't." 

And  the  girl  was  still  staring  at  him,  in  a  dumb 
agony,  an  exquisite  torture,  when  the  smack  of  a 
riding-whip  resounded  on  the  corrugated  roof,  and 
the  eyes  of  both  flew  to  the  door. 

IV 

A  horse's  mane  and  withers,  rubbed  by  the  rider's 
beard  as  he  stooped  to  peer  into  the  hut,  deepened 
the  grey  dusk  within  and  made  the  lamp  burn 
brighter.    Then  came  the  squatter's  voice,  in  tremu- 


THE   GOVEBNESS   AT   GBEENBt  SB  221 

lous,  forced  tones,  as  of  a  man  who  can  ill  trust  him- 
self to  speak. 

"And  so,  Miss  Winfrey,  you  are  here!  " 

The  governess  came  close  to  the  threshold  and 
faced  her  employer  squarely,  though  without  a  word. 
Then  her  song  had  awakened  a  memory,  but  nothing 
more!    So  ran  her  thoughts. 

"  Your  explanation,  Miss  Winfrey?  " 

"  We  knew  each  other  years  ago."  And  she  waved 
with  her  hand  towards  the  man  who  would  not  stand 
beside  her  in  her  shame. 

*'  May  I  ask  when  you  found  that  out?  " 

"  Yesterday  afternoon." 

"  Ah,  when  he  came  in  for  his  cheque.  I  may  tell 
you  that  I  saw  something  of  it  from  the  store;  and 
my  wife  happened  to  overhear  some  more  when  she 
went  to  fetch  you  and  my  daughter  in  to  dinner." 

"  That  was  very  clever  of  Mrs.  Pickering." 

"It  was  an  accident;  she  couldn't  help  hearing." 

"I  daresay!"  cried  the  governess,  taking  fire  at 
the  first  spark.  "  But  I  shall  tell  her  what  I  think  of 
such  accidents  when  I  see  her  again!  " 

There  was  no  immediate  answer.  And  the  girl  took 
a  cold  alarm;  for  a  soft  meaning  laugh  came  through 
the  door;  and  either  behind  her,  or  in  her  imagina- 
tion, there  was  an  echo  which  cut  her  to  the  quick. 

"  May  I  ask,"  said  Mr.  Pickering,  "  when  you  ex- 
pect to  see  my  wife  again?  " 

"  Never! "  said  the  girl,  as  though  she  had  known 


222  SOME    PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

that  all  along;  but  she  had  not  thought  of  it  before, 
and  the  thing  stunned  her  even  as  she  spoke. 

"  Never,"  repeated  the  squatter,  with  immense 
solemnity.  "  You've  treated  her  very  badly,  Miss 
Winfrey;  she  feels  it  very  much.  You  might  at  least 
have  consulted  her  before  going  to  such  a  length  as 
this.  A  length  which  has  nothing  to  do  with  me, 
mark  you;  but  I  must  say  it  is  one  of  the  most  scan- 
dalous things  I  ever  heard  of  in  all  my  life.  I'm 
sorry  to  speak  so  strongly.  I'm  sorry  to  lose  you  for 
the  children;  but  you  must  see  that  you're  no  longer 
quite  the  sort  of  person  we  want  for  them.  You  will 
find  your  boxes  on  the  coach  which  leaves  the  town- 
ship this  evening,  and  your  cheque " 

"  Stop!  "  said  a  hoarse  voice  fiercely.  At  the  same 
moment  Miss  Winfrey  was  forced  to  one  side,  and 
Wilfrid  Ferrers  filled  her  place:  she  had  never  ad- 
mired him  so  much  as  now,  with  his  doubled  fists,  and 
his  rough  dress,  and  the  cold  dawn  shining  on  his 
haggard  face.  "  You've  said  quite  enough,"  he  con- 
tinued; "  now  it's  my  turn,  Mr.  Pickering.  Miss 
Winfrey  hasn't  been  at  the  hut  ten  minutes.  She 
came  because  we  were  old  friends,  to  try  to  make  me 
the  man  I  was  when  she  knew  me  before.  Unfortu- 
nately it's  a  bit  too  late;  but  she  wasn't  to  know  that, 
and  she's  done  no  wrong.  Now  apologise — or  settle  it 
with  me!  "  and  he  laid  hold  of  the  bridle. 

"  You  may  let  go  those  reins,"  replied  Pickering. 
"I'm  not  frightened  of  you,  though  you  have  the 


THE   GOVERNESS   AT   GKBENBUSH  223 

bettor  of  me  by  twenty  years.  But  I  think  you're 
on  the  right  side  in  a  more  important  respect  than 
that;  and  if  I've  done  Miss  Winfrey  an  injustice,  I 
hope  I'm  man  enough  to  apologise  in  my  own  way." 
II.'  slid  from  his  horse,  and  walked  into  the  hut  with 
his  wide-awake  in  one  hand,  and  the  other  out- 
stretched.   "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  blame  you,"  she  replied. 

He  kept  her  hand  kindly. 

"Perhaps  we  shall  meet  again,  Miss  Winfrey.  I 
hope  so.  I  don't  know  how  it  stands  between  you 
two,  but  I  can  give  a  guess.  You're  a  good  girl;  and 
we've  always  known  what  Bill  was  underneath.  Good 
luck  to  you  both!  I  shall  send  another  man  out  here 
to-night." 

The  girl  stood  still  and  heard  him  ride  away.  The 
soft  words  stung  worse  than  the  harsh,  she  scarcely 
knew  why.  She  was  bewildered  and  aching  in  heart 
and  body  and  brain.  On  some  point  she  should  have 
enlightened  Mr.  Pickering,  but  she  had  let  it  pass, 
and  now  what  was  it? 

Ferrers  had  accompanied  the  squatter  outside;  had 
seen  him  start;  and  now  he  was  standing  in  front  of 
her  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  speak  to  her  out  of  the 
past. 

"  Two  men  have  insulted  you  this  morning,"  he 
was  saying.  "  One  has  apologised;  it  is  the  other's 
turn  now.    Forgive  me Lena!  '*' 

Tt  was  his  old  voice.    The  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes, 


224  SOME    PERSONS    UNKNOWN 

and  she  stepped  out  blindly  for  the  door.  "I  have 
nothing  to  forgive! "  she  cried.  "Let  me  go.  Only 
let  me  go! " 

"Go  where?" 

"  To  the  township — anywhere!  I  should  have  told 
Mr.  Pickering.  Call  him  back! — Ah,  he's  so  far 
away  already!  What  am  I  to  do?  What  am  I  to 
do?" 

Ferrers  pushed  the  wooden  box  into  the  doorway 
where  she  stood  leaning  heavily  against  the  jamb. 
"  Sit  down  on  that,"  said  he,  "  while  I  brew  vou  some 
tea.  You're  tired  to  death.  Time  enough  to  think 
of  things  after." 

The  girl  sat  down,  and  for  a  while  she  cried  gently 
to  herself.  Her  physical  fatigue  was  enormous,  ren- 
dering her  perfectly  helpless  for  the  time  being,  with 
a  helplessness  which  she  resented  more  bitterly  than 
the  incomparable  mental  torments  of  the  situation. 
These  she  deserved.  If  only  she  could  get  away,  and 
turn  this  bitter  page  before  it  drove  her  mad!  If  only 
she  could  creep  away,  and  close  her  eyes  for  hours 
or  for  ever!  Surely  this  was  the  refinement  of  her 
punishment,  that  the  flesh,  which  had  stood  her  in  too 
good  stead  hitherto,  should  fail  her  utterly  in  her 
supreme  need ! 

The  red  sun  burst  out  of  the  plains,  as  it  were 
under  her  very  eyes — blinding  them.  Miss  Winfrey 
would  not  look  round.  She  heard  matches  struck. 
sticks  crackling,  and  later,  the  "billy"  bubbling  on 


THE   GOVERNESS   AT    CiKEENBUSH  225 

the  fire.  She  knew  when  the  "  slush-lamp  "  was  ex- 
tinguished; her  sense  of  smell  informed  her  of  the 
fact.  She  heard  a  chop  frizzling  at  the  fire,  the  cut- 
ting of  the  damper  on  the  table;  but  not  until  Fer- 
rers touched  her  on  the  shoulder,  telling  her  that 
breakfast  was  ready,  would  she  turn  her  head  or  speak 
a  word.  The  touch  made  her  quiver  to  the  core.  He 
apologised,  explaining  that  he  had  spoken  thrice. 
Then  they  sat  down;  and  the  girl  ate  ravenously;  but 
Ferrers  did  little  but  make  conversation,  speaking 
now  of  the  Pickerings,  and  now  of  some  common 
friends  in  London;  the  people,  in  fact,  who  had 
brought  these  two  together. 

"  They  knew  I  had  come  out  here;  didn't  they  tell 
you?" 

"  I  never  went  near  them  again." 

This  answer  set  Ferrers  thinking;  and,  after  re- 
filling the  girl's  pannikin  and  cutting  more  damper, 
he  took  a  saddle  from  a  long  peg.  He  must  catch 
his  horse,  he  said;  he  would  come  back  and  see  how 
she  was  getting  on. 

He  did  not  come  back  for  nearly  an  hour:  the 
horse  was  a  young  one,  and  the  horse-paddock,  which 
was  some  little  distance  beyond  the  hut,  was  absurdly 
large.  He  returned  ultimately  at  a  gallop,  springing 
off,  with  a  new  eagerness  in  his  face,  at  the  door  of  the 
hut.  It  was  empty.  He  searched  the  hut,  but  the 
girl  was  gone.  Then  he  remounted,  and  rode  head- 
long down  the  fence;  and  something  that  he  saw  soon 
15 


226  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

enough  made  his  spurs  draw  blood.  She  was  lying 
in  the  full  glare  of  the  morning  sun,  sound  asleep. 
He  had  difficulty  in  awakening  her,  and  greater  diffi- 
culty in  dissuading  her  from  lying  down  again  where 
she  was. 

"  Have  you  spent  half  a  summer  up  here  without 
learning  to  respect  the  back-block  sun?  You  mustn't 
think  of  going  to  sleep  in  it  again.  It's  as  much  as 
your  life  is  worth." 

"  "Which  is  very  little,"  murmured  Miss  Winfrey, 
letting  some  sand  slip  through  her  fingers,  as  if  sym- 
bolically. 

"Look  here!"  said  Ferrers.  "I  shall  be  out  all 
day,  seeing  to  the  sheep  and  riding  the  boundaries. 
There's  a  room  at  the  back  of  my  hut  which  the  boss 
and  those  young  fellows  use  whenever  they  stay  there. 
They  keep  some  blankets  in  it,  but  I  have  the  key. 
The  coach  doesn't  go  till  e:ght  o'clock  to-night.  Why 
not  lie  down  there  till  five  or  six?  " 

"  I'm  not  a  fool  in  everything,"  said  the  girl  at 
length.    "  I'll  do  that." 

"  Then  jump  on  my  horse." 

"That  I  can't  do!" 

"  I'll  give  you  a  hand." 

"  I  should  fall  off!  " 

"  Not  at  a  walk.  Besides,  I'll  lead  him.  Recollect 
you've  nine  miles  before  you  this  evening." 

She  gave  in.  The  room  proved  comfortable.  She 
fell  asleep  to  the  sound  of  the  horse's  canter,  lost  in 


THE  GOVERNESS  AT  GREENBUSH    227 

a  few  strides  in  the  sand,  but  continuous  in  her  brain. 
And  this  time  she  slept  for  many  hours. 

It  was  a  heavy,  dreamless  sleep,  from  which  she 
at  last  awoke  refreshed,  but  entirely  nonplussed  as  to 
her  whereabouts.  The  room  was  very  small  and  hot. 
It  was  also  remarkably  silent,  but  for  the  occasional 
crackling  of  the  galvanised  roof;  and  rather  dark, 
but  for  the  holes  which  riddled  that  roof  like  stars, 
letting  in  so  many  sunbeams  as  thin  as  canes.  Miss 
Winfrey  held  her  watch  in  one  of  them,  but  it  had 
stopped  for  want  of  winding.  Then  she  opened  the 
door,  and  the  blazing  sun  was  no  higher  in  the 
west  than  it  had  been  in  the  east  when  last  she 
saw  it. 

On  a  narrow  bench  outside  her  door  stood  a  tin 
basin,  with  a  bit  of  soap  in  it,  cut  fresh  from  the  bar; 
a  coarse  but  clean  towel;  and  a  bucket  of  water  under- 
neath. The  girl  crept  back  into  the  room,  and  knelt 
in  prayer  before  using  these  things.  In  the  forenoon 
none  of  them  had  been  there. 

Going  round  presently  to  the  front  of  the  hut,  the 
first  thing  she  saw  was  the  stockrider's  boots,  with 
the  spurs  on  them,  standing  just  outside  the  door; 
within  there  was  a  merry  glare,  and  Wilfrid  Ferrers 
cooking  more  chops  in  his  stocking  soles  before  a 
splendid  fire. 

"  Well ! "  she  exclaimed  in  the  doorway,  for  she 
could  not  help  it. 

"Awake  at  last!"  he  cried,  turning  a  face  ruddy 


228  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

from  the  fire.  "You've  had  your  eight  hours.  It's 
nearly  five  o'clock." 

"  Then  I  must  start  instantly." 

"  Time  enough  when  we've  had  something  to  eat." 

The  first  person  plural  disconcerted  her.  "Was  he 
coming  too?  Mr.  Pickering  had  taken  it  for  granted 
that  they  would  go  together;  he  was  sending  another 
man  to  look  after  the  out-station;  but  then  Mr.  Pick- 
ering was  labouring  under  a  delusion;  he  did  not 
understand.  Wilfrid  was  very  kind,  considering  that 
his  love  for  her  was  dead  and  buried  in  the  dead  past. 
The  gentleman  was  not  dead  in  him,  at  all  events. 
How  cleverly  he  managed  those  hissing  chops!  He 
looked  younger  in  the  firelight,  years  younger  than 
in  the  cold  grey  dawn.  But  no  wonder  his  love  of 
her  was  dead  and  gone. 

"  Now  we're  ready,"  he  cried  at  last.  "  Quick, 
while  they're  hot,  Lena!  "  His  tone  had  changed 
entirely  since  the  early  morning;  it  was  brisker  now, 
but  markedly  civil  and  considerate.  He  proceeded  to 
apologise  for  making  use  of  her  Christian  name;  it 
had  slipped  out,  he  said,  without  his  thinking. 

At  this  fresh  evidence  of  his  indifference,  the  girl 
forced  a  smile,  and  declared  it  did  not  matter. 

"  Surely  we  can  still  be  friends,"  said  she. 

"  Yes,  friends  in  adversity!  "  he  laughed.  "  Don't 
you  feel  as  if  we'd  been  wrecked  together  on  a  desert 
island  ?    T  do.    But  what  do  you  think  of  the  chops?  " 

"  Very  good  for  a  desert  island." 


THE  GOVERNESS  AT  GBEENBUSH    '^20 

.She  was  trying  to  adopt  his  tone;  it  was  actually 
gay;  and  herein  his  degeneracy  was  more  apparent  to 
her  than  in  anything  that  had  gone  before.  He  could 
not  put  himself  in  her  place;  the  cruel  dilemma  that 
she  was  in,  for  his  sake,  seemed  nothing  to  him;  his 
solitary  dog's  life  had  deprived  him  of  the  power  of 
feeling  for  another.  And  yet  the  thought  of  those 
boots  outside  in  the  sand  contradicted  this  reflection; 
for  he  had  put  them  on  soon  after  her  reappearance, 
thus  showing  her  on  whose  account  they  had  been 
taken  off.  Moreover,  his  next  remark  was  entirely 
sympathetic. 

"  It's  very  rough  on  you,"  he  said.  "  What  do  you 
mean  to  do?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  must  go  hack  to  Melbourne." 

"And  then?" 

"  Get  another  place — if  I  can." 

He  said  no  more;  but  he  waited  upon  her  with 
heightened  assiduity  during  the  remainder  of  their 
simple  meal;  and  when  they  set  out  together — he 
with  all  his  worldly  goods  in  a  roll  of  blankets  across 
his  shoulders — she  made  another  effort  to  strike  his 
own  note  of  kindly  interest  and  impersonal  sympathy. 
"  And  you,"  she  said  as  they  walked;  "  what  will  you 
do?" 

"Get  a  job  at  the  next  station;  there'll  be  no 
difficulty  about  that." 

"  I'm  thankful  to  hear  it." 

"  But  I  am  in  a  difficulty  about  you." 


230  SOME   PERSONS    UNKNOWN 

He  paused  so  long  that  her  heart  fluttered,  and 
she  knew  not  what  was  coming.  They  passed  the 
place  where  her  resolution  had  given  way  in  the  dark 
hour  before  the  dawn;  she  recognised  that  other  spot, 
where,  later,  he  had  found  her  asleep  in  the  sun; 
but  the  first  fence  was  in  sight  before  he  spoke. 

"  I  can't  stand  the  idea  of  your  putting  in  another 
appearance  in  the  township,"  he  exclaimed  at  last, 
thrilling  her  with  the  words,  which  expressed  perhaps 
the  greatest  of  her  own  immediate  dreads.  "  It  won't 
do  at  all.  Things  will  have  got  about.  You  must 
avoid  the  township  at  all  costs." 

"How  can  I?" 

"  By  striking  the  road  much  lower  down.  It  will 
mean  bearing  to  the  right,  and  no  more  beaten  tracks 
after  we  get  through  this  gate.  But  the  distance  will 
be  the  same  and  I  know  the  way." 

"  But  my  trunks " 

"  The  boss  said  he  would  have  them  put  on  the 
coach.  They'll  probably  be  aboard  whether  you  are 
or  no.    If  they  aren't,  I'll  have  them  sent  after  you." 

"  I  shall  be  taking  you  out  of  your  way,"  objected 
the  girl. 

"  Never  mind.    Will  you  trust  me?  " 

"  Most  gratefully." 

She  had  need  to  be  grateful.  Yes,  he  was  very 
kind;  he  was  breaking  her  heart  with  his  kindness, 
that  heart  which  she  had  read  backward  five  years 
ago,  but  aright  ever  since.    It  was  all  his.    Either  the 


THE   GOVERNESS   AT   (iREENBUSH  231 

sentiment  which  was  one  of  her  inherent  qualities, 
or  the  generosity  which  was  another,  or  both,  had 
built  up  a  passion  for  the  man  she  had  jilted,  far 
stronger  than  any  feeling  she  could  have  entertained 
for  him  in  the  early  days  of  their  love.  She  had 
yearned  to  make  atonement,  and  having  prayed,  for 
years,  only  to  meet  him  again,  to  that  end,  she  had 
regarded  her  prayer  now  as  answered.  But  answered 
how  cruelly!  Quite  an  age  ago,  he  must  have  ceased 
to  care;  what  was  worse,  he  had  no  longer  any  strong 
feelings  about  her,  one  way  or  the  other.  Oh,  that 
was  the  worst  of  all!  Better  his  first  hot  scorn,  his 
momentary  brutality:  she  had  made  him  feel  then: 
he  felt  nothing  now.  And  here  they  were  trudging 
side  by  side,  as  silent  as  the  grave  that  held  their 
withered  love. 

They  came  to  the  road  but  a  few  minutes  before 
the  coach  was  due.  Ferrers  carried  no  watch;  but  he 
had  timed  their  journey  accurately  by  the  sun.  It 
was  now  not  a  handbreadth  above  the  dun  horizon; 
the  wind  had  changed,  and  was  blowing  fresh  from 
the  south;  and  it  was  grateful  to  sit  in  the  elongated 
shadows  of  two  blue-bushes  which  commanded  a  fair 
view  of  the  road.  They  had  been  on  the  tramp  up- 
wards of  two  hours;  during  the  second  hour  they  had 
never  spoken  but  once,  when  he  handed  her  his  water- 
bag;  and  now  he  handed  it  again. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  passing  it  back  after  her 
draught.    "  You  have  been  very  kind!  " 


232  SOME    PERSONS    UNKNOWN 

"  Ah,  Lena! "  he  cried,  without  a  moment's  warn- 
ing, "  had  you  been  a  kinder  girl,  or  I  a  stronger 
man,  we  should  have  been  happy  enough  first  or  last! 
Now  it's  too  late.  I  have  sunk  too  low.  I'd  rather 
sink  lower  still  than  trade  upon  your  pity." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  That's  all." 

He  pointed  to  a  whirl  of  sand  half  a  mile  up  the 
road.  It  grew  larger,  giving  glimpses  of  half-har- 
nessed horse-flesh  and  heavily  revolving  wheels.  The 
girl's  lips  moved;  she  could  hear  the  driver's  whip, 
cracking  louder  and  louder;  but  the  words  came  hard. 

"  It  is  not  true,"  she  cried  at  last.  "  That  is  not 
all.    You — don't — care!  " 

He  turned  upon  her  his  old,  hungry  eyes,  so  sunken 
now.  "  I  do,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "  Too  much — to 
drag  you  down.  No!  let  me  sink  alone.  I  shall  soon 
touch  bottom! " 

She  got  to  her  feet.  The  coach  was  very  near 
them  now,  the  off-lamp  showing  up  the  vermilion 
panels;  the  bits  tinkling  between  the  leaders'  teeth; 
the  body  of  the  vehicle  swinging  and  swaying  on  its 
leather  springs.  The  governess  got  to  her  feet,  and 
pointed  to  the  coach  with  a  helpless  gesture. 

"  And  I?  "  she  asked  him.  "  What's  to  become  of 
me?" 

The  south  wind  was  freshening  with  the  fall  of 
night;  at  that  very  moment  it  blew  off  the  driver's 
wide-awake,  and  the  coach  was  delayed  three  minutes. 


THE   G0VE1LNESS   AT   GREEN  BUSH  233 

A  few  yards  farther  it  was  stopped  again,  and  at  this 
second  exasperation  the  driver's  language  went  from 
bad  to  worse;  for  the  coach  was  behind  its  time. 

"What  now?    Passengers?" 

"  Yes." 

"  The  owner  of  the  boxes?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  too?    Where's  your  cheque?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  colloquy  between  the  two 
dusky  figures  in  the  road;  then  the  man  took  a  slip 
of  paper  from  the  left-hand  pocket  in  his  moleskins, 
and  held  it  to  the  off-lamp  for  the  driver's  inspection. 
"  The  two  of  us,"  he  said. 

"Yes?    Well!  up  you  jump.    .    .    .    All  aboard!" 

And  with  his  blankets  round  her,  and  her  hand  in 
his,  the  little  governess,  and  her  lost  love  who  was 
found,  passed  at  star-rise  through  the  Greenbush 
boundary-gate,  and  on  and  on  into  another  life. 


A  FAREWELL  PERFORMANCE 

Sam  Eccles  had  killed  a  brown  snake  in  his  wood- 
heap,  and  had  proceeded  to  play  a  prehistoric  trick 
on  all  comers  to  the  Murrumbidgee  Bridge  Hotel. 
He  had  curled  up  the  carcase  under  a  bench  on  the 
verandah,  and  the  new  chum  from  Paka,  riding  in 
for  the  station  mail,  had  very  violently  killed  that 
snake  again.  But  the  new  chum  was  becoming  ac- 
climatised to  bush  humour;  and  he  arranged  the  life- 
less coil  in  a  most  lifelike  manner  on  the  snoring  body 
of  a  Gol-gol  boundary-rider  who  was  lying  deathly 
drunk  inside  the  bar.  This  a  small  but  typical  com- 
pany applauded  greatly;  but  Sam  Eccles  himself  leant 
back  against  the  wall  and  laughed  only  softly  in  his 
beard.  There  was  a  reminiscent  twinkle  in  his 
eye,  and  someone  offered  him  something  for  his 
thoughts. 

"  I  was  thinkin',"  said  Sam,  "  of  another  old  snake- 
yarn  that  come  my  way  last  Christmas-time.  Was  any 
of  you  jokers  in  the  township  then?  I  thought  not; 
it  was  the  slackest  Christmas  ever  I  struck." 

"  My  troubles  about  Christmas! "  said  a  drover 
with  a  blue  fly-veil.    "  Pitch  us  the  yarn." 

234 


A  FAREWELL  PERFORMANCE  235 

"  Ah,  but  it's  a  yarn  and  a  half!  I'm  not  sure  that 
I  want  to  pitch  it.  I  do  and  I  don't;  it'd  make  you 
smile." 

"Yes?" 

"  Rip  it  out,  Sam!  " 

"  See  here,  boss,"  said  the  drover,  "  mix  yer  own 
pison  and  chalk  it  to  me."  And  that  settled  the  mat- 
ter. 

"Any  of  you  know  the  I-talian?"  began  Sam,  by 
way  of  preface,  as  he  mixed  his  grog. 

" Pasquale? "  said  the  new  chum.  "Rather!  I 
sling  him  out  of  my  store  periodically." 

"  He's  our  local  thief,"  Sam  explained,  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  drover  and  his  mates,  who  were  strangers  to 
the  township.  "A  real  bad  egg,  so  bad  that  we're 
proud  of  him.  Shakes  everything  he  can  lay  his  dirty 
nails  on,  and  smokes  a  meerschum  he  must  have 
shook  before  we  knew  him.  An  organ-grinder  in  re- 
dooced  circumstances,  that's  what's  the  matter  with 
old  Squally;  but  he  must  have  been  out  a  good  bit, 
for  he  speaks  as  good  bloomin'  English  as  you  or  me. 
Came  this  way  first  a  year  or  two  ago;  hadn't  been 
here  a  month  before  every  decent  door  in  the  place 
was  slammed  in  the  beggar's  face.  I've  fired  him  out 
of  this  again  and  again.  The  last  time  was  last  Christ- 
mas Day.  He  had  the  cheek  to  shove  in  his  ugly  mug, 
first  thing  in  the  morning,  and  ask  if  there  was  any 
free  drinks  going.  Free  drinks  for  him!  He  went  out 
quicker  than  he  come  in.    But  he  turns  up  again  in 


236  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

the  afternoon,  as  bold  as  blessed  brass,  and,  by  cripes, 
I  didn't  fire  him  then! 

"  The  joker  was  bit  by  a  snake.  His  face  was  as 
white  as  his  teeth,  an'  there  was  the  fear  o'  death,  yes, 
an'  the  heat  of  hell  in  his  wicked  eyes.  He'd  chucked 
his  hat  away,  after  ripping  out  the  greasy  blue  linin', 
and  that's  what  he'd  got  twisted  around  his  right 
wrist.  Twisted  so  tight,  with  the  stem  of  his  pipe, 
that  the  hand  looked  dead  and  rotten,  all  but  a  crust 
of  blood  between  the  knuckles.  Then  he  licks  off  the 
blood,  and  there  sure  enough  were  two  little  holes, 
just  like  stabs,  five-eighths  of  an  inch  apart.  My 
blessed  oath! 

" '  What  kind? '  says  I,  though  I  thought  I  knew. 

" '  A  coral,'  says  Squally,  as  I  expected.  And  you 
know  what  that  means,  you  mister;  there's  not  one  in 
ten  as  gets  bit  by  a  coral-snake  and  lives  to  show  the 
place." 

The  new  chum  nodded. 

"  Well,  there  was  just  one  chance  for  the  joker  and 
that  was  all.  I  filled  a  tumbler  with  whisky  straight — 
hanged  if  he'd  touch  it!  Never  see  such  a  thing  in 
my  life!  That  swine  who'd  get  dead  drunk  every 
time  he  got  the  slant — who'd  been  round  that  very 
mornin',  cadgin'  for  a  drink — the  same  obstinate  pig 
wouldn't  touch  a  drop  now  to  save  his  life.  '  No,  no,' 
says  Squally,  eI  have  been  drunken  dev-ill  all  my 
days,  let  me  die  sober,  let  me  die  sober.'  So  we  had 
to  take  him  and  force  that  whisky  down  his  throat, 


\    FABEWELL  PERFORM AXCE  237 

like  giving  a  horse  a  ball,  and  another  big  nobbier  on 
top  of  it  to  make  sure.  Then  we  stood  round  and 
Looked  on.  D'ye  see,  mister,  if  it  made  him  tight  we'd 
pull  him  through;  if  it  didn't,  there  was  no  hope  for 
him;  and  there'd  be  one  blackguard  less  in  Riverina. 
Well,  for  a  bit  he  stood  as  straight  an'  as  firm  as  them 
verandah  posts;  but  it  wasn't  long  before  I  see  his 
knees  givin'  an'  his  chin  comin'  down  upon  his  chest; 
an'  then  I  knew  as  all  was  right.  In  less  than  five 
minutes  he  was  blind  and  speechless;  we'd  got  him 
spread  out  comfy  in  that  corner;  and  the  rest  of  us 
were  quenching  the  little  thirst  we'd  raised  over  the 
luisiness." 

Here  Sam  Eccles  suited  the  action  to  the  word,  and 
the  drover  with  the  blue  fly-veil  shook  his  head. 

"  You  didn't  deserve  them  drinks,"  said  he.  "  What 
did  you  want  to  go  and  save  a  thing  like  that  for? 
You  should  have  let  the  joker  die.    /  would." 

"  I  wished  I  had,"  replied  Sam,  ruefully.  "  That's 
not  the  end  of  the  yarn,  d'ye  see,  and  it's  the  end 
what's  going  to  make  you  chaps  smile.  There's  a 
rabbit-inspector  lives  in  this  here  township,  and 
knows  more  about  nat'ral  history  than  any  other  two 
men  in  the  back-blocks.  He  happened  to  be  at  home 
that  day,  and  he's  at  home  to-day,  too,  if  you'd  like  to 
see  the  snake  what  bit  the  Italian.  He  has  it  in  his 
house — and  this  is  how  he  come  to  get  it.  Somebody 
tells  him  what's  happened,  and  he  looks  in  during  the 
evening  to  see  for  himself.     There  was  old  Squally 


238  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

drowned  in  whisky,  sleepin'  like  a  kid.  '  So,'  says 
Mr.  Gray — that's  the  rabbit-inspector — 'now's  my 
time.  The  other  day  I  lost  my  pen-knife;  must  have 
dropped  it  out  of  the  buggy,  but  remembered  the 
place  and  drove  back;  met  Squally  on  the  way,  and 
nat-rally  never  saw  my  knife  again.  Now's  my  time,' 
says  he,  '  to  get  it  back.  Now's  the  time,'  he  says, 
'  for  all  of  us  to  get  back  everything  we  ever  lost! ' 
And  down  he  goes  on  his  knees  beside  Squally,  and 
starts  feeling  in  his  pockets. 

" '  Here  it  is! '  he  says  directly;  and  yet  he  never 
gets  up  from  his  knees. 

"  '  Struck  anything  else,  Mr.  Gray?  '  says  I  at  last. 

" '  Yes,  Sam,  I  have,'  says  he,  turning  round  and 
fixing  me  with  his  blue  goggles.  '  What  sort  of  a 
snake  was  it  our  friend  here  said  had  bitten  him? ' 

" '  A  coral,'  says  I. 

"  '  Not  it,'  says  he. 

"'What  then?'  says  I. 

" '  A  new  variety  altogether,'  says  Mr.  Gray,  grin- 
ning through  his  beard. 

"  '  Give  it  a  name,  sir,'  says  I. 

"  '  Certainly,'  says  he,  getting  up.  '  If  we  call  it  the 
knife-snake  we  shan't  be  far  out.'  And  blowed  if  he 
didn't  show  me  the  little  blade  of  his  own  knife 
blooded  at  the  point;  blowed  if  he  didn't  fit  the 
blessed  point  into  Squally's  blessed  bites! " 

Sam  covered  his  face  for  shame,  but  joined  next 
moment  in  the  laugh  against  himself.    Not  so  he  of 


A   FAREWELL  PERFORMANCE  239 

the  blue  fly-veil.     The  drover's  hairy  visage  was  a 
strong  study  in  perfectly  candid  contempt. 

"  You  run  a  bush  pub,  and  you  were  had  by  that 
old  dodge.  It  hasn't  got  a  tooth  in  its  head — it's  as 
old  as  the  blooming  sandhills — yet  you  were  had. 
My  stars! " 

The  new  chum  from  Paka  diverted  the  laugh  by 
innocently  inquiring  what  that  dodge  might  be. 

"  A  free  drunk/'  said  the  drover.  "  And  you  ought 
to  stand  us  free  drinks,  mister,  for  not  knowing. 
You're  only  a  shade  better  than  our  friend  the  boss. 
To  swallow  that  old  chestnut  at  this  time  o'  day!  " 

Sam  Eccles  lost  his  temper. 

"  You've  said  about  enough.  The  man  I  mean  was 
a  born  actor.  Either  shut  your  blessed  head  or  take 
off  that  coat  and  come  outside." 

"  Right,"  replied  the  drover,  divesting  himself  on 
his  way  to  the  door.  Sam  followed  him  with  equal 
alacrity,  but  came  to  a  sudden  halt  upon  the  thresh- 
old. 

"  Wait  a  bit!  "  he  cried.  "Jiggered  if  here  ain't 
the  very  man  I've  been  telling  you  about;  running  on 
one  leg  too,  as  if  he  was  up  to  the  same  old  dodge 
again.    He  can't  be.    It's  too  steep!  " 

Even  as  he  spoke  there  was  the  bound  of  a  bare  foot 
in  the  verandah,  and  a  hulking  Neapolitan  hopped 
into  the  bar  with  his  other  foot  in  his  hand  and  ap- 
parent terror  in  his  eyes.  But  his  face  was  not  white 
at  all;   it  was  flushed  with  running;   and  the  actor 


240  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

seemed  dazed,  or  disconcerted  by  the  presence  of  an 
unknown  audience. 

"  Bitten  again?  "  inquired  Sam  Eccles,  genially. 

"  Bitten  by  a  coral.  Bitten  in  my  foot!  Look,  look 
at  the  marks.  Per  Dio!  I  am  dead  man.  A  drink — 
a  drink!" 

"  Hark  at  that! "  said  Sam  Eccles,  nudging  the 
man  whom  he  had  been  about  to  fight.  "  You're  in 
luck;  I  never  thought,  when  I  was  pitching  you  that 
yarn,  that  you'd  see  the  same  thing  over  again  with 
your  own  eyes.  Who'd  have  believed  he'd  try  the  same 
game  twice?  But  don't  he  do  it  well?  "  And  as  Sam 
said  this,  he  wrested  the  whisky-bottle  from  Pas- 
quale's  hands,  and  put  that  worthy  down  on  his 
back. 

"No,  you  don't.  Not  this  time,  Squally.  Not 
much! " 

The  Neapolitan*  was  up  again  in  an  instant,  foam- 
ing at  the  mouth,  and  cursing  volubly,  but  ready 
hands  held  him  back. 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  an  actor,  old  man,"  said 
one. 

"  He  ought  so,"  laughed  the  drover.  "  He's  a  treat. 
I  wouldn't  have  missed  him  for  a  lot." 

Pasquale  spat  in  his  face. 

"  No,  no,  you  don't  see  him  at  his  best,"  said  Sam 
Eccles,  apologetically.  "  He's  over-doing  it.  He  was 
three  times  as  good  last  trip." 

The  actor  turner!  and  reviled  him,  struggling  with 


A  FAREWELL    PERFORMANCE  241 

his  captors,  kicking  them  harmlessly  with  his  bare 
feet — gesticulating — pointing  to  the  twin  blood- 
spots  on  his  left  instep — and  weeping  prayers  and 
curses  in  the  same  breath.  But  if  none  had  heeded 
him  at  first,  much  less  would  they  do  so  now;  for  he 
had  fallen  incontinently  upon  his  native  tongue. 

"  A  damned  good  performance,"  said  the  drover, 
wiping  his  face.  "  But  I  guess  I'll  burst  him  when 
he's  finished." 

"  I  wouldn't,"  said  the  tolerant  Eccles.  "  I  let  him 
off  light  last  time.  It's  something  to  have  an  actor 
like  him  in  the  back-blocks.    Look  at  that!  " 

The  Neapolitan  lay  bunched  and  knotted  on  the 
ground  in  a  singularly  convincing  collapse. 

"  I  don't  believe  it's  acting  at  all!  "  cried  the  youth 
from  Paka,  in  a  whinny  of  high  excitement. 

"You're  a  new  chum,"  retorted  Sam  Eccles. 
"  What  do  you  know  about  it?  You  wasn't  even 
here  last  time." 

"  I  know  a  sham  when  I  see  one.  There's  not  much 
sham  about  this! " 

And  without  more  words  the  new  chum  fled  the 
bar,  a  shout  of  laughter  following  him  out  into  the 
heat. 

"  These  young  chaps  from  home,  they  know  so 
much,"  said  Sam  Eccles.  "  I  tell  you  what,  our  friend 
was  drunk  this  trip  before  he  come  in.  That's  what 
made  him  pile  it  on  so.  He's  as  paralytic  now  as  he 
was  last  time  after  them  two  tumblers  of  whisky. 
16 


212  SOME    PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

Let's  stick  him  in  the  same  old  corner,  and  drink  his 
bloomin'  health." 

The  company  did  so  while  Sam  refilled  the  glasses. 

"Here's  to  old  Squally  the  I-talian.  Otherwise 
Lion  Comique  of  the  Riverina  district  of  Noo  South 
Wales.  Long  life  an'  'ealth  to  'em — hip,  hip,  hur- 
ray! " 

Sam  made  the  speech  and  led  the  cheers.  His  late 
antagonist  and  he  clinked  glasses  and  shook  hands; 
then  Sam  pointed  to  the  heap  of  moleskin  and  Cri- 
mean shirting,  in  the  far  corner  of  the  bar,  and 
lowered  his  voice. 

"  You've  not  seen  him  at  his  best,"  he  insisted. 
"  The  beggar  was  too  blooming  drunk  to  start  with." 

"  I'll  see  him  when  he's  sober,"  said  the  drover 
grimly.    "  But  he  can  act!  " 

"My  oath!  Sober  or  drunk.  Hullo,  here  is  a  joke; 
blowed  if  that  new  chum  hasn't  fetched  Mr.  Gray  to 
have  a  look  at  old  Squally,  just  like  he  did  before!  " 

And  the  two  men  paused  to  watch  the  rabbit- 
inspector,  who  had  entered  without  looking  their  way, 
kneel  down  beside  the  prostrate  Pasquale,  and  bend 
over  him  with  blue  spectacles  intent.  He  examined 
the  punctures  on  the  left  instep;  he  stooped  and 
sucked  them  with  his  lips.  His  next  act  was  to  raise 
one  eyelid  after  another;  his  last,  to  lay  a  weather- 
beaten  hand  upon  the  Italian's  heart;  and  all  this 
was  done  in  a  dead  silence  which  had  fallen  upon  the 
place  with  the  entry  of  Mr.  Gray. 


A  FAREWELL  PERFORMANCE  243 

"Long  life  to  'im  again,"  murmured  the  drover, 
emptying  his  glass;  hut  Sam  Eccles  neither  heard  nor 
answered  him.  At  length  the  inspector  arose,  and 
turned  towards  them  with  his  expressionless  glasses. 

"  There  was  no  nonsense  about  it  this  time,  Sam. 
It  was  a  snake  right  enough,  and  a  coral-snake  into 
the  bargain." 

Sam  gave  a  gasping  cry. 

"  But  if  he's  drunk " 

"He  isn't;  he's  dead." 

In  his  own  corner  the  Gol-gol  boundary-rider  lay 
snoring  through  it  all,  a  dead  snake  still  curled  upon 
his  breast. 


A  SPIN   OF  THE   COIN 

Unfortunately  the  young  man  was  not  by  any 
means  the  genius  he  looked,  with  his  pale,  keen  face 
and  hungry  eyes:  or  fortunately,  as  some  may  say: 
since  there  is  now  no  occasion  to  grieve  for  him  on 
national  grounds.  For  the  rest,  he  had  none  so  near 
to  him  as  to  provoke  your  sympathy  with  the  liv- 
ing, being  either  unable  or  else  unwilling  to  claim 
any  sort  of  kinship  with  others  of  his  name.  In  fine 
he  was  without  a  friend  in  the  world,  save  one  only, 
who  swore  to  wait  for  him,  if  need  be,  till  she  became 
an  old,  old  woman. 

We  will  call  him  Saumerez,  and  his  friend  Sap- 
phira. 

They  had  met  in  a  crowded  studio  where  women 
of  all  ages,  and  a  few  young  men,  may  either  work  or 
play  at  drawing  the  figure,  under  the  tutelage  of  one 
of  the  clever  failures  of  his  profession.  The  girl  had 
come  to  play,  having  tired  suddenly  of  life  in  the 
country,  and  felt  the  aching  need  of  a  new  sensation; 
the  man  to  work  his  hardest,  in  the  intervals  of  other 
work  which  by  itself  was  quite  hard  enough  for  any 

244 


A  SPIN  OF  THE  COIN  245 

one  man  not  accurst  with  a  soul  above  black-and-white 
work  i'or  a  minor  illustrated  paper.  But  though  the 
aims  of  these  two  were  as  the  poles  asunder,  the  time 
of  their  coming  coincided;  and  the  very  first  day, 
their  eyes  joined  through  the  rustling,  tittering  forest 
of  easels;  his  being  black  as  night,  and  hers  so  soft, 
that  it  was  not  till  he  came  to  paint  them  that  he 
gave  a  thought  to  their  colour. 

Sapphira  had  also  brought  with  her  from  the  coun- 
try such  a  complexion  as  one  might  look  for,  but 
would  seldom  see;  and  it  bloomed  in  the  London 
studio  like  a  fresh  rose  in  a  faded  wreath.  Nor  was 
it  only  her  good  looks  that  fascinated  the  most  truly 
artistic  eye  of  all  those  around  her;  she  was  at  least 
as  remarkable,  in  that  place,  for  the  self-possession 
and  good-breeding  which  enabled  her  to  take  her  own 
time  in  making  the  acquaintance  of  her  fellow-stu- 
dents, without  seeming  either  lonely  or  self-conscious, 
nor  yet  particularly  proud,  meanwhile.  As  she  after- 
wards confessed,  however,  Saumerez  could  not  have 
been  more  interested  in  her — nor  earlier — than  she 
in  Saumerez,  who  had  always  his  own  air  of  distinc- 
tion, which,  if  it  misled,  was  at  any  rate  wholly  un- 
intentional in  a  young  fellow  wearing  his  dark  hair 
as  short  as  another's,  and  his  pale  face  as  scrupulously 
shaven  And,  for  that  matter,  Saumerez  was  easily 
the  best  workman  in  the  studio,  having  talent  and  a 
professional  touch,  with  hitherto  a  clean  heart  for  his 
work,  and  a  pure  yearning  to  do  more  than  it  was  in 


246  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

him  ever  to  do,  soon  to  be  exchanged  for  the  godless 
ambition  to  make  money  and  a  name. 

The  change,  however,  was  quite  gradual.  In  a 
mixed  school  of  art  the  more  austere  conventions 
are  out  of  place;  even  Sapphira  learned  to  lay  them 
aside  with  her  gloves  and  umbrella  during  working 
hours;  but  she  took  care  to  make  neither  herself 
nor  her  friend  conspicuous,  as  seemed  to  be  studio 
fashion.  Nor  is  it  absolutely  necessary  to  confine 
to  the  academic  precincts  any  friendship  struck  up 
within  them.  Yet  though  it  was  at  the  first  blush 
of  the  New  Year  that  Sapphira  had  come  up  to  town 
with  an  old  governess  (now  her  timid  slave),  spring- 
time was  well  advanced  before  Saumerez  was  admitted 
to  her  little  flat  in  Kensington.  And  it  was  only  in 
April  that  his  own  ill-favoured  studio  in  a  grimy 
street  off  Fitzroy  Square,  became  the  scene  of  some 
sittings  which  produced  the  one  good  thing  he  ever 
did;  and  in  the  fatal  month  following  that  he  and 
Sapphira  spent  a  long  delirious  day  in  Richmond 
Park,  and  from  the  deer  and  bracken  and  the  green- 
ing trees,  came  back  to  town  engaged. 

At  her  wish,  laughingly  assented  to  by  one  who  for 
his  part  had  nobody  to  tell,  the  engagement  was  kept 
secret  for  the  time  being.  Special  care  was  taken  that 
it  should  not  be  guessed  at  the  school,  where  engage- 
ments were  painfully  common,  and  of  a  brazen  char- 
acter invariably.  On  the  other  hand,  Sapphira's 
duenna  (and  she  alone)  was  told  outright,  being  tame 


A  SPIN  OF  THE  coin  247 

enough  to  trust,  and  for  reasons  of  obvious  expediency 
lusides.  Her  sleep  it  spoilt  for  many  a  summer's 
night;  and  a  frightened,  sorrowful  look  which  would 
shadow  her  plain  old  face  under  the  young  man's 
eyes,  now  aglow  with  a  fearful  fervour,  worried  him 
also  in  the  end;  until,  little  as  it  mattered  to  him 
personally,  the  clandestine  element  began  to  interfere 
with  his  happiness  by  galling  his  self-respect. 

So  one  day  as  they  sat  together  in  Kensington 
Gardens,  which  were  conveniently  close  to  the  flat, 
and  talked  over  her  approaching  holiday  (Sapphira 
was  going  home  for  August  at  least),  Saumerez  said 
impulsively,  though  with  the  exceeding  tenderness 
which  he  could  not  separate  from  his  lightest  word 
to  his  mistress: 

"  Dearest  heart,  if  only  your  people  knew!  " 

"If  only  your  picture  were  painted!"  answered 
Sapphira.  After  which  you  can  hardly  need  telling 
that  he  had  already  conceived  a  masterpiece,  and 
talked  it  over  with  Sapphira,  who  had  latterly  become 
hotly  impatient  for  its  production. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "don't  hurry  me  over  that!  I 
didn't  intend  to  touch  it  for  years  and  years.  Heaven 
knows  I  mean  no  reproach  to  you,  dearest;  yet  if  it 
wasn't  for  my  love  I  wouldn't  think  of  it  even  now. 
Oh,  don't  look  like  that!  I  am  grateful  to  you — 
I  am,  indeed,  for  hurrying  me  up;  I  was  just  as  likely 
to  go  to  the  other  extreme.  But  you  must  give  me 
till  next  spring,  sweetheart,  and  then " 


248  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

His  eyes  strayed  far  away  into  the  cool,  dark 
shadows  beneath  the  trees,  but  in  a  flash  came  back 
to  burn  themselves  into  hers. 

"  My  picture's  painted  already,"  he  said  with  a 
smile  and  a  meaning  stare  of  love  and  worship — 
"  the  best  I  shall  ever  do.  I  could  never  love  any- 
thing I  did  as  I  love  my  poor  libel  on  you!  Oh, 
but  if  you  knew  how  you  watch  over  me  all  the 
time  I  am  at  work!  If  you  knew  how, one  good  look 
at  you  gives  me  fresh  heart,  fresh  hope,  fresh  energy 
when  my  own  stock  runs  out!  For  it  is  you  some- 
times, though  I  made  it.  And  yet,  now  I  am  with  you, 
I  see  it  is  no  more  you  than  a  smear  of  blue  paint  is 
the  sky — my  darling  heart!  " 

His  passion  pleased  Sapphira,  and  put  out  of  her 
head  for  the  moment  the  thought  of  her  people,  which 
haunted  her  unpleasantly  at  times;  but  as  decidedly 
such  a  time  was  the  present,  when  she  was  about  to 
go  back  into  their  midst,  she  reverted  to  the  subject 
of  her  own  accord,  dwelling  chiefly  on  the  obsolete 
character  of  her  people's  ideas  on  certain  points,  of 
which  the  instance  was  the  fuss  they  had  made  about 
her  coming  up  to  town  at  all.  That  move  had  ob- 
tained their  sanction  at  last,  but  never  their  approval. 
They  were  still  on  the  pounce  for  the  slightest  pre- 
text to  insist  upon  her  giving  it  all  up,  like  a  dutiful 
child,  which  (said  Sapphira)  was  by  no  means  their 
opinion  of  her  in  the  meantime.  If,  therefore,  they 
were  to  suspect  for  one  moment — but  imperatively 


A  Sl'IN  OF  THE  COIN  249 

they  must  suspect  nothing  until  such  time  as  they 
might  be  told  all  with  confidence  born  of  a  picture 
in  the  Academy  at  the  very  least.  Such  were  the 
girl's  people  on  her  own  showing.  As  a  fact,  they 
were  also  exceedingly  prosperous  and  well-to-do;  but 
of  that  she  made  as  little  as  possible.  And  a  few  days 
later  she  was  back  among  them;  taking  nothing  seri- 
ously from  morning  till  night;  joining  heartily  in  the 
general  laugh  against  herself  and  her  artistic  exploits 
in  town;  and  cheerfully  supporting,  from  day  to  day, 
the  renewed  attentions  of  a  young  neighbouring 
squire,  whom  she  had  banished  from  the  country 
(without  intending  that)  a  twelvemonth  before — the 
honest  gentleman,  in  fact,  who  is  now  her  husband. 

Meanwhile  in  glaring  London,  the  ill-starred  Sau- 
merez  was  wearing  out  brain  and  hand  and  eye  for 
his  Sapphira.  As  a  moving  surprise  for  her  when  she 
returned,  and  to  show  his  great  love,  he  had  begun 
incontinently  upon  his  great  attempt;  and  daily  the 
dream  of  months  was  crumbling  beneath  his  hand, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  the  conception  was  entirely 
beyond  his  present  power  of  execution,  besides  being 
as  yet  most  imperfectly  matured  in  his  mind.  Hour 
after  hour,  and  day  after  day,  his  hand  hovered  over 
the  great  canvas,  as  often  with  palette-knife  as  with 
brush;  and  only  the  presence  of  his  model  kept  him 
from  tears  and  execrations.  And  night  after  night, 
under  a  great  blinding  light,  the  same  fool  sat  draw- 
ing viciously  for  the  semi-insolvent  illustrated  paper 


250  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

from  which  he  was  earning  his  precarious  livelihood 
all  this  time.  Night  and  day,  day  and  night;  it  was 
enough  to  wreck  the  strongest,  and  Saumerez  was 
never  strong.  But  he  was  greatly  fortified  by  the 
thought  of  his  mistress,  and  still  more  by  the  ever- 
present  sight  of  her  on  the  one  canvas  he  had  covered 
to  something  like  his  own  satisfaction.  Sapphira's 
portrait  was  a  distinct  success,  which  left  him  some 
lingering  belief  in  his  own  powers,  to  pit  against 
daily  and  hourly  failure;  and  he  had  often  told  her 
how  it  encouraged  him  in  another  way.  By  a  clever 
trick  accidently  caught  he  had  painted  her  eyes  so 
that  they  watched  him  incessantly,  whether  at  night 
over  his  drawing-board  or  at  his  easel  during  the  day; 
he  had  only  to  look  up  to  meet  the  soft  eyes  he  loved; 
and  sometimes,  when  long  hours  had  tangled  his 
nerves,  to  surprise  a  kind  smile  on  the  red  lips  and  to 
fancy  the  sweet  sunburnt  throat  swelling  with  warm 
breath.  At  such  moments  he  would  go  and  stand, 
until  he  ached  again,  before  the  portrait  that  was 
making  him  work  desperately  but  not  well — and  think 
— and  think — and  even  pray  to  Sapphira  for  pluck 
and  power,  as  to  a  painted  Virgin. 

But  he  had  made  to  himself  a  kinder  face  than  he 
was  ever  to  see  any  more  in  the  flesh.  For  when 
Sapphira  came  back  in  September  it  was  to  get  rid  of 
her  flat  at  the  end  of  the  quarter;  and  when  he  went 
to  say  good-bye  to  her  she  informed  him — with  con- 
siderable agitation,  it  is  true,  but  yet  with  a  firmness 


A  SPIN  OF  THE  COIN  251 

and  decision  about  which  there  could  be  no  mistake 
— that  she  must  give  him  up  too.  In  the  condition 
to  which  Saumerez  had  reduced  himself  by  overwork 
and  worry,  a  scene  was  to  be  expected,  and  he  made 
one  that  frightened  dreadfully  the  author  of  all  this 
miseTy;  yet  she  bore  it  with  such  a  disarming  humil- 
ity and  so  many  and  bitter  self-reproaches  that  the 
wronged  man's  heart  softened  hopelessly  before  he 
left  her.  Thus  they  parted  with  tears  on  both  sides, 
and  on  his  the  most  passionate  vows  he  had  ever  made 
her:  just  because  she  had  told  him  how  she  honoured 
and  admired  him  above  all  men,  among  whom,  sim- 
ply, she  found  there  was  none  she  could  "really 
love." 

Now  mark  the  mischief  of  this  assurance.  To 
Saumerez  it  was  food  and  drink  and  sleep  for  many 
days.  From  an  only  consolation  it  grew  into  a  last 
hope.  Then  the  hope  began  to  importune  for  ex- 
pression, and  that  crescendo,  until  Saumerez  sat  down 
at  last  and  made  a  full  and  final  outpouring  of  his 
soul  to  Sapphira,  and  charging  her  not  to  answer  until 
her  heart  was  changed,  turned  to  his  tools  with  relief, 
and  began  excellently  by  destroying  the  abortive 
"  masterpiece."  However,  an  answer  came  with 
startling  promptitude.  And  Saumerez  would  have 
done  well  to  open  it  without  first  pondering  the  super- 
scription in  the  dear  familiar  hand,  that  danced 
through  his  starting  tears,  and  without  wasting  time 
in  fond  and  fatuous  speculations;  for  the  answer  was, 


252  SOME    PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

what  Sapphira  had  hoped  to  spare  him  "  i'or  a  long, 
long  time  " — namely,  that  she  was  already  engaged 
to  someone  else — meaning  the  excellent  man  she  mar- 
ried before  the  year  was  out. 

But  it  was  still  early  in  October  when  the  affair 
took  its  final  turn,  so  far  as  Saumerez  was  concerned. 
In  the  raw  afternoon  of  that  same  day  he  was  seen  in 
Piccadilly,  walking  west.  His  dark  eyes  were  sunken 
and  lack-lustre;  an  inky  stubble  covered  the  lower 
part  of  his  face  without  hiding  the  hollows  of  his 
cheeks;  and  he  was  for  passing  a  moderately  close 
acquaintance  with  no  more  than  a  nod,  but  this  the 
other  would  not  allow. 

"  I  say,  Saumerez,"  cried  he,  "  in  God's  name,  what 
have  you  been  doing?  " 

"  Working,"  Saumerez  answered  mechanically.  "  I 
have  been  working  rather  hard.  Rather  too  hard.  I 
don't  think  I  have  been  asleep  this  year.  Now  I  am 
trying  a  little  exercise." 

The  man  he  had  met  recommended  him  to  try 
more  particular  remedies  than  that,  and  named  a 
specialist  for  insomnia.  But  he  found  himself  giving 
advice  to  strangers;  for  yards  of  greasy  pavement, 
with  its  shifting  freight  of  damp  humanity,  already 
separated  him  from  Saumerez,  whom  he  watched  out 
of  sight  with  a  shrug,  and  put  out  of  mind  in  five 
minutes. 

In  Kensington  Gardens  a  ground  fog  clung  to  the 
ding}7  grass,  shrouding  the  trunks  of  trees  whose  tops 


A  SPIN  OF  THE  COIN  253 

were  sharp  enough  against  a  merely  colourless  sky. 
It  was  the  first  afternoon  that  autumn  when  your 
breath  smoked  in  the  air.  The  use  of  the  place  on 
such  a  day  was  as  a  route,  not  a  retreat,  and  Saumerez 
had  no  fellow  loiterers.  But  ever  through  the  fog 
the  leaves  floated  softly  to  the  ground — a  meagre,  un- 
noticeable  shower,  of  no  conceivable  interest  to  any- 
body; yet  Saumerez  watched  it  attentively  till  the 
light  failed,  sitting  the  whole  time  on  a  seat  that 
would  have  chilled  to  the  bone  any  person  in  his 
proper  senses.  It  was  a  seat,  however,  on  which  he 
remembered  sitting  with  Sapphira  once  in  the  sum- 
mer before  she  went  away.  He  sat  on  now  until  a 
keeper  in  a  cape  stopped  to  tell  him  it  was  half-past 
five  and  he  must  go.  He  got  up  at  once,  and  walked 
home;  but  God  knows  by  what  roundabout  way; 
for  when  he  reached  his  studio  the  moon  was  teem- 
ing into  it  through  the  top-light,  and  shining  with 
all  its  weight  on  Sapphira  as  Saumerez  had  painted 
her. 

The  eyes  were  on  him  from  the  moment  he  crossed 
the  threshold;  and  still  they  seemed  to  smile;  but  he 
shut  the  door,  and  went  up  close,  as  he  had  gone  a 
hundred  times  before,  and  gave  them  back  a  ghastly 
grin. 

"  You  devil!  "  he  said  quietly.  "  You  little,  lying 
devil! ':  And  he  said  worse,  but  all  so  quietly.  And 
as  he  swore  and  grinned  he  took  out  his  penknife, 
and  without  looking  at  it  ran  his  thumb  over  the  blade 


254  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

and  threw  the  knife  away.  It  was  too  blunt  for  him. 
So  he  flung  through  the  studio,  upsetting  with  a  crash 
a  table  laden  with  brushes  and  pipes  and  a  soup- 
plateful  of  ashes,  and  clattered  down  the  step  into 
the  bedroom  which  adjoined.  The  eyes  were  waiting 
for  him  when  he  came  back  with  a  lighted  candle  in 
his  left  hand  and  in  his  right  an  open  razor,  which  he 
plunged  with  a  curse  into  the  brown  slender  throat. 
But  still  the  eyes  met  his  gaily,  and  for  that,  and 
because  the  canvas  would  not  bleed,  he  slit  and  hacked 
at  it  until  the  wooden  frame  was  empty,  and  the 
moon  shining  through  showed  the  painted  shreds  of 
canvas  on  the  floor. 

Then  Saumerez  laughed  stupidly,  and  repeated  the 
laugh  at  intervals  until  the  moon  flashed  in  his  eyes 
from  the  open  razor  still  between  his  fingers.  After 
that  he  stood  as  still  as  of  old  when  worshipping  his 
picture.  But  at  length  he  changed  the  razor  to  the 
hand  which  held  the  candle-stick,  for  a  moment, 
while  he  poised  a  shilling  on  his  thumb-nail. 

"  Heads  for  hell!  "  he  called  aloud.  The  coin  spun 
upward  into  the  skylight,  and  came  spinning  down 
through  the  moonbeams;  it  rang  on  the  floor  and 
rolled  away. 

On  his  knees  Saumerez  hunted  for  it,  the  open 
razor  grasped  once  more  in  his  right  hand,  the  candle 
dripping  from  his  left;  while  he  repeated,  as  though 
their  aptness  pleased  him,  the  words  "  sudden  death." 
But  the  shilling  was  not  to  be  discovered  instantly; 


A  SriN  OF  THE  COIN  255 

it  had  rolled  among  the  debris  of  the  fallen  table; 
and  when  found  it  was  so  coated  with  tobacco-ash 
that  which  side  was  uppermost  it  was  impossible  to 
tell.  Saumerez  would  not  touch  the  tossed  coin;  but 
he  craned  his  neck  downward,  blew  away  the  ashes, 
and  grinned  again  as  he  tightened  his  grip. 


THE   STAR  OF  THE  GRASMERE 

My  acquaintance  with  Jim  Clunie  began  and  ended 
on  the  high  seas.  It  began  when  the  good  ship  Gras- 
mere,  of  the  well-known  Mere  line  of  Liverpool  clip- 
pers, was  nine  days  out  from  that  port,  bound  for 
Melbourne  with  a  hardware  cargo  and  some  sixty 
passengers.  There  were  but  seven  of  us,  however,  in 
the  saloon,  and  Clunie  was  not  of  this  number.  He 
was  a  steerage  passenger.  When,  therefore,  on  the 
tenth  day  out  I  had  occasion  to  seek  the  open  air  in 
the  middle  of  dinner,  I  was  not  a  little  surprised  to 
find  Clunie  practically  in  possession  of  the  poop.  As 
a  steerage  passenger  he  had  no  business  to  be  there  at 
all,  much  less  with  the  revolver  which  I  instantly 
noticed  in  his  right  hand. 

"  It's  all  right,  my  lord,"  he  shouted  to  me  hesitat- 
ing on  the  top  of  the  ladder.  "  I'm  only  taking  a  pot 
at  the  sea-gulls."  And  he  discharged  his  weapon  over 
the  rail,  needless  to  say  without  effect,  for  we  were 
close-hauled  to  a  hard  head  wind,  and  pitching  vio- 
lently. 

I  looked  at  the  man  at  the  wheel,  and  the  man  at 
the  wheel  nodded  to  me. 

256 


THE  STAR  OF  THE  GRASMERE  257 

"  The  third  mate'll  be  back  in  a  minute,  sir.  He's 
only  gone  for'ard  to  speak  to  Chips." 

"  A  minute's  all  I  want,"  cried  Clunie,  firing  twice 
in  quick  succession.  "  What  does  your  lordship  say? 
Too  jolly  sick  to  say  anything,  eh?  " 

I  need  hardly  explain  that  I  have  no  title,  and  just 
then  I  was  neither  nature's  nobleman  nor  lord  of 
creation,  as  I  hung  and  clung  like  a  wet  towel  to  the 
rail.  But  such  manhood  as  I  retained  was  still  sensi- 
tive to  an  impertinence,  and  I  turned  and  stared  as  re- 
sentfully as  possible  at  this  impudent  fellow.  He 
was  young  enough,  but  I  was  younger,  and  I  feel 
sure  we  hated  each  other  on  the  spot.  At  my  look, 
at  all  events,  his  offensive  grin  changed  to  a  sinister 
scowl,  while  I  recollect  making  an  envious  note  of 
his  biceps,  which  filled  out  the  sleeves  of  the  striped 
football  jersey  that  he  wore  instead  of  a  coat.  Per- 
haps at  the  same  moment  he  was  looking  at  my  wrists, 
which  are  many  sizes  too  small,  for  the  next  liberty 
the  brute  took  was  to  pat  me  on  the  back  with  his 
left  hand  while  he  brandished  the  smoking  revolver 
in  his  right. 

"  Cheer  up,"  said  he.  "  You'll  be  as  good  a  man 
as  any  of  us  when  we  get  the  trades.  Try  sardines 
whole!  When  you  can  keep  a  whole  sardine  you'll 
be  able  to  keep  anything." 

"  The  third  mate'll  be  up  directly,"  said  the  man 
at  the  wheel. 

"He  will  so!"  said  I,  starting  off  to  fetch  him; 
17 


258  SOME   PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

but  as  I  reached  the  break  of  the  poop,  up  came  the 
captain  himself,  who  had  heard  the  shots,  and  in 
a  very  few  seconds  Mr.  Clunie  found  himself  in  his 
proper  place  upon  the  main  deck.  He  took  his 
discomfiture  very  coolly,  however,  just  nodding  and 
laughing  when  the  captain  threatened  to  take  away 
his  revolver  altogether.  And  I  saw  no  more  of  the 
man  for  some  days,  because  I  was  so  cold  on  deck  that 
I  soon  retired  to  the  saloon  settee,  and  so  miserable  on 
the  saloon  settee  that  I  finally  retreated  to  my  own 
berth,  where  indeed  most  of  my  time  was  being  spent. 
For  the  voyage  had  begun  badly  enough,  but  for 
three  weeks  it  went  from  bad  to  worse.  We  were 
actually  three  weeks  in  beating  clear  of  the  Bay  of 
Biscay,  during  which  time  we  were  constantly  close- 
hauled,  but  never  on  the  same  tack  for  more  than 
four  consecutive  hours.  It  was  a  miserable  state  of 
things  for  those  of  us  who  were  bad  sailors.  For  four 
hours  one's  berth  was  at  such  an  angle  that  one  could 
hardly  climb  out  of  it;  for  four  more  the  angle  was  re- 
versed, and  one  lay  in  continual  peril  of  being  shot 
across  the  cabin  like  clay  from  a  spade.  Then  the 
curtains,  the  candle-stick  and  one's  clothes  on  the 
pegs  described  arcs  that  made  one  sick  to  look  at 
them;  and  yet  there  was  nothing  else  to  look  at  ex- 
cept the  port-hole,  which  was  washed  repeatedly  by 
great  green  seas  that  darkened  the  cabin  and  shook 
the  ship.  The  firm  feet  and  hearty  voices  of  the 
sailors  overhead,  when  all  hands  put  the  ship  about 


THE  STAK  OF  THE  GRAXMERE  259 

at  eight  bells,  were  only  less  aggravating  than  the 
sound  and  smell  of  the  cuddy  meals  that  reached  and 
tortured  me  three  times  a  day.  I  think  my  single  joy 
during  those  three  weeks  was  one  particularly  foul 
morning  on  the  skirts  of  the  Bay,  when  I  heard  that 
all  the  ham  and  eggs  for  the  cuddy  breakfast  had  been 
washed  through  the  lee  scupper-holes.  Ham  and  eggs 
in  a  sea  like  that! 

Most  days,  it  is  true,  I  did  manage  to  crawl  on 
deck,  but  I  could  never  stand  it  for  long.  I  had  not 
found  my  sea-legs,  my  knees  were  weak,  and  I  went 
sliding  about  the  wet  poop  like  butter  on  a  hot  plate. 
The  captain's  hearty  humour  made  me  sad.  The 
patronising  airs  of  a  couple  of  consumptives,  who 
were  too  ill  to  be  sick,  filled  my  heart  with  impotent 
ire.  What  I  minded  most,  however,  was  the  open  in- 
solence of  Jim  Clunie.  He  was  as  good  a  sailor  as 
our  most  confirmed  invalid,  and  was  ever  the  first 
person  I  beheld  as  I  emerged  from  below  with  groping 
steps  and  grasping  fingers.  He  seemed  to  spend  all 
his  time  on  the  after-hatch,  always  in  his  blue  and 
black  football  jersey  and  a  Tarn  o'  Shanter,  and  gen- 
erally with  a  melodeon  and  some  appreciative  com- 
rade, whom  he  would  openly  nudge  as  I  appeared.  I 
can  see  him  now,  with  his  strong,  unshaven,  weather- 
reddened  face,  and  his  short,  thick-set,  athletic  frame; 
and  I  can  hear  his  accursed  melodeon.  Once  he 
struck  up  "  The  Conquering  Hero  "  as  I  laboriously 
climbed  the  starboard  ladder. 


260  SOME    PEKSONS   UNKNOWN 

Never  were  three  longer  weeks;  but  a  fair  wind 
came  at  last,  and  came  to  stay.  We  took  the  north- 
east trades  in  29°  N.,  and  thenceforward  we  bowled 
along  in  splendid  style,  eight  or  nine  knots  an  hour, 
with  a  slight  permanent  list  to  port,  but  practically 
no  motion.  The  heavy  canvas  was  taken  down,  the 
ship  put  on  her  summer  suit  of  thin  white  sails,  and 
every  stitch  bagged  out  with  steadfast  wind.  There 
was  now  no  need  to  meddle  with  the  yards,  and  the 
crew  were  armed  with  scrapers  and  paint-pots  to  keep 
them  out  of  mischief.  Awnings  were  spread,  as  every 
day  the  sun  grew  hotter  and  the  sea  more  blue,  and 
under  them  the  passengers  shot  up  like  flowers  in  a 
forcing-house.  There  was  an  end  to  our  miseries, 
and  the  pendulum  swung  to  the  other  extreme.  I 
never  saw  so  many  souls  in  spirits  so  high  or  in  health 
so  blooming.  We  got  to  know  each  other;  we  told 
stories;  we  sang  songs;  we  organized  sweepstakes  on 
the  day's  run.  We  played  quoits  and  cards,  draughts 
and  chess.  We  ventured  aloft,  were  duly  pursued  and 
mulcted  in  the  usual  fine.  We  got  up  a  concert.  We 
even  started  a  weekly  magazine. 

And  in  almost  everything  my  foe  Clunie  took  con- 
spicuous part.  He  was  the  only  man  of  us  who  was 
too  quick  for  the  sailors  up  aloft.  When  his  pursuer 
had  all  but  reached  him,  Clunie  swung  himself  on  to 
one  of  the  stays  and  slid  from  the  cross-trees  to  the 
deck  in  the  most  daring  fashion,  thus  exempting  him- 
self from  further  penalty.    He  afterwards  visited  all 


THE  STAB  OF  THE  &RA8MEBE  261 

three  mastheads  in  one  forenoon,  and  wrote  his  name 
on  the  truck  of  each.  "We  had  our  first  concert  the 
same  evening,  and  if  one  man  contributed  to  its  suc- 
cess more  than  another,  that  man  was  undoubtedly 
Jim  Clunie.  He  not  only  played  admirably  upon  his 
melodeon,  but  he  recited  "  The  Charge  of  the  Light 
Brigade  "  and  Poe's  "  Kaven  "  with  unsuspected  force 
and  cleverness.  People  began  to  speak  of  him  as  the 
life  and  soul  of  the  ship,  and  yet  in  the  saloon  we 
were  getting  to  like  him  less  and  less.  For  though 
plucky  and  talented,  he  was  also  pushing,  overbearing, 
and  ready  to  make  himself  objectionable  on  or  without 
the  very  slightest  provocation. 

He  had  sent  in  a  contribution  for  the  Grasmere 
Chronicle,  which  happened  to  be  edited  by  the  doctor 
and  myself.  We  were  prepared  for  a  good  thing,  for 
the  general  aggressiveness  of  the  man  had  by  no 
means  blinded  us  to  his  merits,  but  we  soon  discovered 
that  these  did  not  include  any  sort  of  literary  faculty. 
His  effusion  was  too  silly  even  for  a  ship's  magazine. 
It  was  also  illiterate,  so  it  really  did  fall  short  of  our 
modest  standard.  We  rejected  it,  and  that  night  I 
encountered  Clunie  in  the  waist  of  the  ship. 

"  You  call  yourself  the  editor  of  the  Grasmere 
Chronicle,  do  ye  not?"  he  began,  stopping  me,  and 
speaking  with  the  northern  burr  that  gave  some  little 
distinction  to  his  speech.  I  had  noticed  that  this 
burr  accentuated  itself  under  the  influence  of  emo- 
tion, and  it  was  certainly  accentuated  now.     So  I 


262  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

looked  at  him  inquiringly,  and  he  rolled  out  his  words 
afresh  and  rather  louder. 

"  I  am  one  of  the  editors,"  said  I. 

"  Yes;  the  one  that  rejected  my  verses!  "  cried  he, 
with  a  great  many  r's  in  the  last  word. 

"No,"  I  said,  "I'm  afraid  we  did  that  between 
us." 

"  That's  a  lie,"  said  he  through  his  teeth,  "  and  you 
know  it's  a  lie.  You're  the  man!  You're  the  man! 
And  see  here,  my  fine  friend,  I'll  be  even  with  'e  before 
we  get  to — the  port  we're  bound  for.  D'ye  know 
what  that  is?  " 

"  Melbourne,"  said  I. 

"  Kingdom  Come!  "  said  he;  "  and  I'll  pay  you  out 
before  we  get  there." 

The  sun  had  been  very  hot.  I  felt  sure  that  it 
had  struck  through  Clunie's  most  unsuitable  Tarn  o' 
Shanter  and  affected  his  brain.  Nothing  else  could 
explain  the  absurd  ferocity  of  his  tone  about  so  trivial 
and  impersonal  a  matter  as  a  rejected  offering  for 
our  magazine.  His  face  it  was  too  dark  to  see, 
but  I  went  straight  to  the  doctor  and  reported  my 
suspicions. 

"  If  you  don't  prescribe  that  man  a  straw  hat,"  said 
I,  "  you  may  order  a  sheet  and  a  shot  for  this  one;  for 
I'll  swear  he  means  to  murder  me." 

The  doctor  laughed. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  it  isn't  that,"  he  said.  "  It's  much 
more  likely  to  be  whisky.     He  was  as  right  as  rain 


THE  STAB  OF  THE  U 11  ASM  ERE  263 

when  he  was  with  me  an  hour  or  two  ago.  He  came 
to  tell  me  what  he  was  going  to  do  for  us  to-morrow 
night  at  the  concert.  He  means  to  bring  the  ship 
down  this  time;  he's  our  star,  my  boy,  and  we  mustn't 
take  him  too  seriously;  it'll  never  do  to  go  and  have 
a  row  with  Jim  Clunie." 

The  doctor  thought  differently  a  day  or  two  later; 
meantime  he  took  the  chair  at  our  second  concert, 
held  in  6°  N.,  and  in  his  opening  speech  he  paid 
Clunie  what  I  considered  a  rather  unnecessary  compli- 
ment, which,  however,  the  "  star  "  certainly  justified 
before  our  entertainment  was  over.  He  gave  us  a 
capital  selection  on  his  melodeon,  then  he  sang  to  it, 
concluding  with  a  breakdown  in  response  to  a  double 
encore.  But  his  great  success  was  scored  in  the  second 
part  of  the  programme,  when  he  recited  "  The  Dream 
of  Eugene  Aram  "  with  a  tragic  intensity  which  has 
not  since  been  surpassed  in  my  hearing.  Perhaps  the 
tragedy  was  a  little  overdone;  perhaps  the  reciter 
ranted  in  the  stanzas  descriptive  of  the  murder;  but 
I  confess  I  did  not  think  so  at  the  time.  To  me  there 
was  murder  in  the  lowered  voice,  and  murder  in  the 
protruding  chin  (on  which  the  beard  was  still  grow- 
ing), and  murder  in  the  rolling  eye  that  gleamed  into 
mine  oftener  than  I  liked  in  the  course  of  the  recita- 
tion. The  latter  was  the  most  realistic  performance 
I  had  ever  heard,  and  also  the  most  disagreeable.  Nor 
can  I  have  been  alone  in  thinking  so,  for,  when  it  was 
over,  a  deep  sigh  preceded  the  applause.    This  was 


264  SOME   PEESONS    UNKNOWN 

deafening,  but  Clunie  was  too  good  an  artist  to  risk 
an  anti-climax  by  accepting  his  encore.  He  was  con- 
tent, possibly,  to  have  pulled  the  cork  out  of  the  rest 
of  the  entertainment,  which  fell  very  flat  indeed. 
Then,  in  a  second  speech,  our  infatuated  doctor  paid  a 
second  compliment  to  "  the  star  of  the  Grasrnere." 
And  by  midnight  he  had  the  star  on  his  hands:  sun- 
struck,  it  was  suspected:  in  reality  as  mad  as  a  man 
could  be. 

Some  details  of  his  madness  I  learned  afterwards, 
but  more  I  witnessed  on  the  spot. 

At  six  bells  in  the  first  watch  he  appeared  half- 
dressed  on  the  poop  and  requested  the  captain  to 
make  it  convenient  to  marry  him  next  morning.  Our 
astonished  skipper  had  taken  his  pipe  from  his  teeth, 
but  had  not  answered,  when  Clunie  broke  away  with 
the  remark  that  he  had  still  to  ask  the  girl.  In  a 
minute  or  two  he  was  back,  laughing  bitterly,  snap- 
ping his  fingers,  and  announcing  in  the  same  breath 
how  his  heart  was  broken,  and  that  he  did  not  care. 
It  appeared  that,  with  a  most  unmerited  proposal  of 
marriage,  he  had  been  frightening  the  wits  out  of 
some  poor  girl  in  the  steerage,  whither  he  now  re- 
turned (as  he  said)  to  sleep  it  down.  The  chief  officer 
was  sent  after  him,  to  borrow  his  pistols.  Clunie  lent 
them  on  condition  the  mate  should  shoot  me  with 
them,  and  heave  my  body  overboard,  and  never  let 
him  set  eyes  on  me  again.  And  in  the  mate's  wake 
went  our  dear  old  doctor,  who  treated  the  maniac  for 


THE  STAR  OF  THE  GRASMERE  265 

sun-stroke,  and  pronounced  him  a  perfect  cure  in  the 
morning. 

Nevertheless  he  was  seen  at  mid-day  perched  upon 
the  extreme  weather-end  of  the  fore-t'-gallan'  yard- 
arm,  holding  on  to  nothing,  but  playing  his  melodeon 
to  his  heart's  content.  The  whole  ship's  company 
turned  out  to  watch  him,  while  the  chief  officer  him- 
self went  aloft  to  coax  him  down.  To  him  Clunie  de- 
clared that  he  could  see  Liverpool  as  plain  as  a  pike- 
staff on  the  port  bow,  that  he  could  read  the  time  by 
the  town-hall  clock,  and  that  he  wasn't  coming  down 
till  he  could  step  right  off  at  the  docks.  Our  ingen- 
ious chief  was,  however,  once  more  equal  to  the  occa- 
sion, and  at  last  induced  Clunie  to  return  to  the  deck 
in  order  to  head  a  mutiny  and  take  command  of  the 
ship.  When  he  did  reach  the  deck,  he  rushed  straight 
for  me,  the  mate  tripped  him  up,  and  in  another  min- 
ute he  was  wailing  and  cursing,  and  foaming  at  the 
mouth,  with  the  irons  on  his  wrists  and  a  dozen  hands 
holding  him  down.  It  appeared  that  the  two  of  them 
had  arranged,  up  aloft,  to  burn  me  alive  as  an  offering 
to  Neptune  on  crossing  the  line;  to  behead  the  cap- 
tain and  all  the  male  passengers;  and  to  make  all  fe- 
males over  the  age  of  thirty  walk  the  plank  that  after- 
noon. The  last  idea  must  have  emanated  from  our 
wicked  old  chief  himself. 

They  put  him  first  in  the  second  mate's  cabin, 
which  opened  off  the  passage  leading  to  the  saloon. 


266  SOME    PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

His  language,  however,  was  an  unsavoury  accompani- 
ment to  our  meals,  and  it  was  generally  felt  that  this 
arrangement  could  not  be  permanent.  Though 
shackled  hand  and  foot,  and  guarded  day  and  night 
by  an  apprentice,  he  managed  to  escape,  in  a  false 
nose  and  very  little  else,  on  the  second  afternoon.  A 
number  of  us  effected  his  capture  on  the  main  deck, 
but  I  was  the  only  one  whose  action  in  the  matter  he 
appeared  to  resent.  He  spent  the  rest  of  that  day  in 
hoarsely  cursing  me  from  the  second  mate's  berth. 
On  the  morrow  we  lost  the  trade-wind,  which  had  car- 
ried us  nearly  to  the  line.  All  day  we  wallowed  in 
a  stream  of  rain  upon  an  oily  sea.  But  the  damp  of 
the  doldrums  seemed  to  suit  the  poor  fellow  in  the 
second  mate's  cabin;  at  all  events,  his  behaviour  im- 
proved; and  in  a  couple  of  days  (when  we  were  fortu- 
nate enough  to  drift  into  the  south-east  trades)  the 
carpenter's  berth,  in  the  for'ard  deck-house,  was 
ready  for  his  reception,  with  a  sheet  of  iron  over  the 
door,  stout  bars  across  the  port-hole,  and  the  carpen- 
ter's locker  securely  screwed  up. 

It  took  Clunie  exactly  twenty-four  hours  to  break 
into  that  locker.  He  then  stationed  himself  at  his 
port-hole  with  a  small  broadside  of  gouges  and  chisels, 
which  he  poised  between  the  bars  and  proceeded  to 
fire  at  all  comers.  The  officers  were  fetched  to  over- 
power him,  but  Clunie  managed  to  break  the  third 
mate's  head  in  the  fray.  Then,  because  they  could 
not  throw  him  overboard,  they  fixed  a  ring-bolt  in 


THE   STAJJ   OF  Til  10   (lltAS.Ml-Jh'H  2G7 

the  floor  of  the  carpenter's  berth,  and  handcuffed 
Clunie  down  to  that  whenever  he  became  violent. 
As  we  sailed  into  cooler  latitudes,  however,  his  mania 
abated  day  by  day.  He  gave  up  railing  at  every  man, 
woman,  or  child  who  passed  his  port-hole;  he  even 
ceased  to  revile  me  when  we  met  on  deck,  where  he 
was  now  allowed  to  take  the  air  with  his  right  wrist 
handcuffed  to  the  left  of  the  strongest  seaman  in  the 
forecastle.  And  at  this  stage  I  fear  that  poor  Clunie 
was  the  amusement  of  many  who  had  latterly  gone  in 
terror  of  him,  for  he  was  very  strong  on  mesmerism, 
which  he  fancied  he  achieved  by  rattling  his  manacles 
in  our  ears,  while  he  was  ever  ready  to  talk  the  most 
outrageous  balderdash  to  all  who  cared  to  listen  to 
him.  His  favourite  delusion  was  a  piece  of  profanity, 
sadly  common  in  such  cases;  his  chief  desire,  to  be 
allowed  to  row  himself  back  to  Liverpool  in  one  of  the 
boats. 

"  Give  me  the  dinghy  and  a  box  of  mixed  biscuits," 
he  used  to  say,  "  and  that  little  girl  who  wouldn't 
marry  me,  and  I  won't  trouble  you  any  more." 

It  was  all  very  sad,  but  the  violent  phase  had  been 
the  worst.  His  only  violence  now  was  directed  against 
his  own  outfit,  which  he  dismembered  suit  after  suit, 
swathing  his  feet  with  the  rags.  The  striped  football 
jersey  alone  survived,  and  this  he  wore  in  a  way  of  his 
own.  Because  he  had  torn  up  all  his  trousers,  he 
thrust  his  legs  through  the  tight  striped  sleeves;  and 
as  his  costume  was  completed  by  a  strait-waistcoat, 


268  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

constructed  by  the  sailinaker,  it  was  impossible  not 
to  smile  at  the  ludicrous  figure  now  cut  by  this  irre- 
sponsible soul.  He  was  no  longer  dangerous.  The 
homicidal  tendency  had  disappeared,  and  with  it  the 
particular  abhorrence  with  which  I  of  all  people  had 
been  unfortunate  enough  to  inspire  him  when  he  was 
still  comparatively  sane.  We  were  now  quite  friendly. 
He  called  me  Brother  John,  after  a  character  in  a 
comic  song  with  which  I  had  made  rather  a  hit  at  our 
first  concert,  but  the  familiarity  was  employed  with- 
out offence. 

We  had  it  very  cold  in  our  easting.  We  all  but 
touched  the  fiftieth  parallel.  But  we  were  rewarded 
with  excellent  winds,  and  we  bade  fair  to  make  a 
quick  passage  in  spite  of  our  sluggish  start.  One 
wild,  wet  evening,  I  was  standing  on  the  weather  side 
of  the  quarter-deck,  when  Clunie  came  up  to  me  with 
his  strange  apparel  soaked  through,  his  swathed  feet 
dragging  behind  him  like  squeegees,  and  the  salt  spray 
glistening  in  his  beard. 

"  Well,  governor,"  said  he,  "  do  you  remember  re- 
fusing my  verses?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  I,  smiling. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  he,  thrusting  his  face  close  to  mine. 
"  So  do  I,  Brother  John!  "  And  he  turned  on  his 
swaddled  heel  without  another  word. 

Straight  I  went  to  the  doctor. 

"  Doctor,"  said  I,  "  you  oughtn't  to  let  that  fellow 
go  loose.    I  fear  him,  doctor;  I  fear  him — horribly." 


THE  STAB  OF  THE  QRASMERE  269 

"Why?"  cried  he.  "You  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
he's  getting  worse  again?  " 

"  No/'  I  said,  "  he's  getting  better  every  day;  and 
that's  exactly  where  my  fear  comes  in." 

The  wind  blew  strong  and  fair  until  we  were  within 
a  day's  sail  of  Port  Phillip  Heads.  Then  it  veered, 
still  blowing  strong,  and  we  were  close-hauled  once 
more,  the  first  time  for  eight  weeks.  Then  it  shifted 
right  round,  and  finally  it  fell.  So  we  rolled  all  night 
on  a  peaceful,  starlit  sea,  with  the  wind  dead  aft  and 
the  mizzen-mast  doing  all  the  work,  but  that  was  very 
little.  Three  knots  an  hour  was  the  outside  reckon- 
ing, and  our  captain  was  an  altered  man.  But  we 
passengers  gave  a  farewell  concert,  and  spent  the 
night  in  making  up  the  various  little  differences  of 
the  voyage,  and  not  one  of  us  turned  in  till  morning. 
Even  then  I  for  one  could  not  sleep.  I  was  on  the 
brink  of  a  new  life.  The  thought  filled  me  with  joy 
and  fear.  We  had  seen  no  land  for  eighty  days.  We 
expected  to  sight  the  coast  at  daybreak.  I  desired  to 
miss  none  of  it.  I  wanted  to  think.  I  wanted  air. 
I  wanted  to  realise  the  situation.  So  I  flung  back  my 
blankets  at  two  bells,  and  I  slipped  into  my  flannels. 
In  another  minute  I  was  running  up  the  foremast 
ratlines,  with  a  pillar  of  idle  canvas,  and  a  sheaf  of 
sharp,  black  cordage  a-swing  and  a-sway  between  me 
and  the  Australian  stars. 

I  had  not  "  paid  my  footing  "  at  the  beginning  of 


270  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

the  voyage  for  nothing.  I  had  acquired  a  sure  foot 
aloft,  a  ready  hand,  and,  above  all,  a  steady  head.  I 
climbed  to  the  cross-trees  without  halt  or  pause,  and 
then  I  must  needs  go  higher.  My  idea  was  to  sit  on 
the  royal  yard,  and  wait  there  for  Australia  and  the 
rising  sun.  It  is  the  best  spar  for  seeing  from,  be- 
cause there  are  no  sails  to  get  in  your  way — you  are 
on  the  top  of  all.  But  it  is  also  the  slightest,  the  least 
stable,  and  the  farthest  from  the  deck. 

I  sat  close  to  the  mast,  with  my  arm  (so  to  speak) 
round  its  waist;  and  it  is  extraordinary  how  much 
one  sees  from  the  fore-royal  yard.  There  was  no 
moon  that  night,  the  sea  seemed  as  vast  as  the  sky 
and  almost  as  concave.  Indeed,  they  were  as  two 
skies,  joined  like  the  hollows  of  two  hands:  the  one 
spattered  with  a  million  moonstones;  the  other  all 
smeared  with  phosphorous;  both  inky,  both  infinite; 
and,  perched  between  the  two,  an  eighteen-year-old 
atom,  with  fluttering  heart  and  with  straining  eyes, 
on  the  edge  of  a  wide  new  world. 

It  had  been  a  pleasant  voyage.  I  was  sorry  it  was 
over.  Captain,  officers,  passengers  and  crew,  it  was 
probably  my  last  night  among  them,  and  my  heart 
turned  heavy  at  the  thought.  They  had  been  good 
friends  to  me.  Should  I  make  as  good  over  yonder? 
It  was  too  much  to  expect;  these  dear  fellows  had 
been  so  kind.  Among  them  all  I  had  made  but  one 
enemy,  and  he,  poor  devil,  was  not  accountable.  My 
thoughts  stayed  a  little  with  Clunie,  who  had  not 


THE  STAR  OF  THE  GRASMERE  271 

spoken  to  me  since  the  wet  wild  night  when  he 
brought  up  that  silly  forgotten  matter  of  his  rejected 
contribution.  My  thoughts  had  not  left  him  when  his 
very  voice  hailed  me  from  a  few  feet  below. 

"  Sit  tight,  Brother  John,"  he  cried,  softly.  "  I'll 
be  with  ye  in  two  twos." 

I  nearly  fell  from  the  yard.  He  was  within  reach 
of  my  hand.  His  melodeon  was  slung  across  his 
shoulders,  and  he  had  a  gleaming  something  between 
his  teeth.  It  looked  like  a  steel  moustache.  There 
would  have  been  time  to  snatch  it  from  him,  to  use  it 
if  necessary  in  my  own  defence.  As  I  thought  of  it, 
however,  his  feet  were  on  the  foot-rope,  and  he  him- 
self had  plucked  the  knife  from  his  mouth.  It  was 
a  carving-knife,  and  I  could  see  that  his  mouth  was 
bleeding. 

"Move  on  a  bit,"  he  said;  and  when  I  hesitated 
he  pricked  me  in  the  thigh.  Next  moment  he  was 
between  the  mast  and  me. 

He  thrust  his  left  arm  through  my  right;  his  own 
right  was  round  the  mast,  and  the  knife  was  in  his 
right  hand,  which  he  could  hardly  have  used  in  that 
position.  For  an  instant  my  heart  beat  high;  then  I 
remembered  having  seen  him  throw  quoits  with  his 
left  hand.  And  I  heard  the  look-out  man  give  a 
cough  deep  down  below. 

"  Ay,  we  hear  him,"  observed  Clunie,  "  but  he  won't 
hear  us  unless  you  sing  out.  And  when  you  do  that 
you're  a  gone  coon.    Fine  night,  is  it  not?    If  we  sit 


272  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

here  long  enough  we  shall  see  Australia  before  morn- 
ing. So  that  surprises  you,  Brother  John?  Thought 
I'd  say  Liverpool,  now,  didn't  you?  Not  me,  you  fool, 
not  me.    I'm  as  sane  as  you  are  to-night." 

He  chuckled,  and  I  felt  my  forehead;  it  was  cold 
and  messy.  But  say  something  I  must,  so  I  laughed 
out: 

"  "Were  you  ever  anything  else?  " 

"  Ever  anything  else?  I  was  as  mad  as  mad,  and 
you  know  it,  too.  You're  trying  to  humour  me;  but 
I  know  that  game  too  well,  so  look  out!  " 

"  You  mistake  me,  Clunie,  you  do " 

"You  fool!"  said  he;  "take  that,  and  get  out 
further  along  the  yard." 

And  he  gave  my  leg  another  little  stab,  that  brought 
the  blood  through  my  flannels  like  spilled  ink.  I 
obeyed  him  in  order  to  put  myself  beyond  his  reach. 
This,  however,  was  not  his  meaning  at  all.  He  edged 
after  me  as  coolly  as  though  we  were  dangling  our 
legs  over  the  side  of  a  berth. 

"  I've  got  a  crow  to  pluck  with  you,"  he  went  on, 
"  and  you  know  well  enough  what  it  is." 

"  Those  verses?  "  said  I,  holding  on  with  all  ten 
ringers;  for  we  were  rolling  as  much  as  ever;  and 
now  the  black  sea  rose  under  us  on  one  side,  and  now 
on  the  other;  but  Clunie  had  straddled  the  spar,  and 
he  rode  it  like  a  rocking-horse,  without  holding  on 
at  all. 

"  Those  verses,"  he  repeated.    "  At  least,  that's  one 


THE  STAR  OF  THE  GRA8MERE  273 

of  them.    I  should  have  said  there  was  a  brace  of 


crows." 


"  Well,  as  to  the  verses/'  said  I,  "  you  were  hardly 
a  loser.  Our  magazine,  as  you  may  know,  died  a 
natural  death  the  very  next  week." 

"Of  course  it  did,"  said  Clunie,  with  an  air  of 
satisfaction  which  I  found  encouraging.  "  You  re- 
fused my  poem,  so,  of  course,  the  thing  fizzled  out. 
What  else  could  you  expect?  But  I  tell  you  I  have 
a  second  bone  to  pick  with  you.  And  you'll  find  it 
the  worst  of  the  two — for  you!  " 

"I  wonder  what  that  is,"  said  I,  in  a  mystified 
tone,  thinking  to  humour  him  still  more. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  said  he.  "  Just  shunt  a  bit  further 
along  the  yard." 

"  I  shall  be  over  in  a  minute,"  I  cried,  as  he  forced 
me  and  followed  me  with  the  naked  carver. 

"  I  know  you  will,"  he  replied,  "  but  not  till  I've 
done  with  you.  To  come  to  that  second  bone.  You 
had  a  concert  to-night,  and  you  didn't  ask  me  to  do 
anything! " 

My  teeth  chattered.  We  had  never  thought  of 
him.  I  protested,  and  truly,  that  the  fault  was  not 
mine  alone;  but  he  cut  me  short. 

"How  many  concerts  have  you  had  without  ask- 
ing me  to  perform — me,  the  only  man  of  you  worth 
listening  to — me,  the  star  o'  the  ship?  Tell  me  that, 
Brother  John!  " 

"  I  hardly  know." 
18 


274  SOME   PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

"  Count,  then!  " 

"  I  think  about  six." 

"  Curse  your  thinking!    Make  sure." 

I  counted  with  my  clutching  fingers. 

"  Seven/'  I  said  at  length. 

"Are  ye  sure?" 

"  Yes,  perfectly." 

"  Then  take  that— and  that— and  that— and  that!  " 
And  he  pricked  me  in  seven  places  with  his  infernal 
knife,  holding  it  to  my  throat  between  the  stabs  in 
case  I  should  sing  out. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  concert 
all  to  yourself.  You're  going  to  hear  the  star  of  the 
Grasmere  free  of  charge.  But  get  you  along  to  the 
point  of  the  spar  first;  then  you'll  be  all  ready.  What, 
you  won't?    Ah,  I  thought  that'd  make  you!  " 

I  had  obeyed  him.  He  had  followed  me.  And 
now  the  knife  was  back  in  his  mouth — the  blood  had 
caked  upon  his  beard — and  the  melodeon  was  between 
his  hands.  He  played  me  the  "Dead  March."  I 
should  not  have  known  it,  for  I  was  past  listening, 
but  the  horrid  grin  in  his  mad  eyes  showed  me  that 
he  was  doing  something  clever,  and  then  I  discovered 
what.  I  was  now  past  everything  but  holding  on  and 
watching  my  man,  which,  as  I  have  since  thought, 
was  better  than  looking  down.  He  was  wearing  his 
beloved  jersey,  and  he  had  it  the  right  way  on.  Upon 
his  legs  were  a  pair  of  thick  worsted  drawers;  but  his 
feet  were  naked,  and  his  head  was  bare.    It  was  his 


THE  STAR  OF  THE  (JRASMERE  275 

head  I  watched.  His  hair  had  been  cropped  very 
close.  And  the  stars  swam  round  and  round  it  as  we 
rose  and  fell. 

I  heard  four  bells  struck  away  aft  in  the  abyss, 
heard  their  echo  from  the  forecastle  head.  It  was 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  As  we  dipped  to  port, 
Clunie  suddenly  lifted  his  melodeon  in  both  hands, 
and  heaved  it  clean  over  my  head. 

"  Hear  the  splash?  "  he  hissed.  "  Well,  there'll  be 
a  bigger  one  in  a  minute,  and  you'll  hear  that.  You're 
going  to  make  it,  Brother  John!  "' 

His  words  fell  harmlessly  on  my  ears.  I  had  heard 
no  splash.  It  was  as  though  we  were  poised  above  a 
bottomless  abyss. 

The  next  thing  I  noted  was  the  monotonous  and 
altered  sound  in  his  voice.  He  was  reciting  "  The 
Dream  of  Eugene  Aram,"  and  making  the  ghastliest 
faces  close  to  mine  as  he  did  so.  But  I,  too,  was  now 
astride  of  the  spar.  My  legs  were  groping  in  mid-air 
for  the  brace.  They  found  it.  They  clung  to  it.  I 
flung  myself  from  the  spar,  but  the  lithe,  thin  ropes 
gave  with  my  weight,  and  I  could  not — no,  I  durst 
not  let  go. 

And  yet  I  was  not  stabbed  to  the  heart;  for  there 
was  Clunie  leaning  over  me,  with  Tom  Hood's  stanzas 
still  flowing  from  his  blooded  lips,  and  the  carver 
held  in  readiness,  not  for  me,  but  for  the  brace  when 
I  should  trust  myself  to  it.  Seeing  this,  I  held  fast 
to  the  spar.    But  he  stabbed  at  the  back  of  my  hand 


276  SOME  PERSONS   UNKNOWN 

'  — I  see  the  puckered  white  scar  as  I  write — and  I  let 
go  as  we  were  heeling  over  to  port.  His  knife  flashed 
up  among  the  stars.    I  was  gone. 

I  wonder  the  rush  of  air  in  mouth  and  nostrils 
did  not  tear  the  nose  from  my  face,  the  head  from 
my  body.  I  wonder  the  sea  did  not  split  me  in  two 
as  I  went  into  it  like  a  stone.  When  I  endeavour  to 
recall  those  sensations,  I  invariably  fail;  but  at  times 
they  come  to  me  in  my  sleep,  and  when  I  wake  the 
wonder  is  ever  fresh.  Yet  many  a  man  has  fallen  from 
aloft,  and  if  he  but  cleared  the  deck,  has  lived  to  tell 
the  tale.  And  I  am  one  of  that  lucky  number.  When 
I  came  to  the  surface,  there  was  the  ship  waggling 
and  staggering  like  a  wounded  albatross,  as  they  hove 
her  to.  Then  they  saved  me  in  the  pinnace,  because 
I  was  still  alive  enough  to  keep  myself  afloat.  But 
some  may  say  that  Clunie  was  as  lucky  as  myself;  for 
he  had  fallen  a  few  seconds  after  me,  and  his  mad 
brains  splashed  the  deck. 


THE    END 


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